Maureen McKade (15 page)

“Libby?”

The hoarse tone little resembled the deep timbre of his normal voice.

“I’m here, Matt. What’s wrong?”

He lowered his gun but couldn’t seem to find the holster strapped to his thigh. Libby took the weapon from him and laid it on the nightstand. A ragged cough shook Matt’s frame as Libby knelt beside him. She laid a cool palm against his forehead, flinching at the radiating heat. His breathing rasped loudly in the ominous silence of the cabin.

“So hot… tired … hard to breathe.” The short, fractured statement exhausted him, and he closed his eyes.

Libby’s mind raced. He needed a doctor, but Eli was out of town for a couple more days. Two days might be too late. Did she dare expose her medical skills? How would she explain her familiarity with the treatment of pneumonia and the medications needed to care for him?

Matt muttered something unintelligible and thrashed about on the straw mattress. His eyelids lifted and the feverish glint in his eyes stabbed Libby. How could she not use her knowledge to save his life?

“What’s wrong with him?”

Dylan stood behind her shoulder, looking small and scared. Libby turned and grabbed his arms.
“Listen to me, Dylan. I need you to run back to my room at the schoolhouse and get something for me. Can you do that?”

Dylan continued to stare at Matt, fear clouding his expression.

Libby shook him gently. “Dylan, did you hear what I said?”

He blinked and nodded.

“In my room and under the bed is a black trunk. Open it up. You’ll find a bag just like Dr. Clapper’s. Bring it here as quickly as you can. Do you understand?”

His head bobbed and dark bangs fell across his forehead. “I’ll get it.”

“Don’t stop for anything or anyone.” Libby released him, and Dylan sent the sheriff one last frightened glance before hurrying away. She turned her attention back to her patient. “Matt, I have to get a fire going in here before you freeze to death.”

“Too hot,” Matt mumbled.

“That’s the fever.”

Libby straightened and went to the stove. The empty wood box told her Matt must have kept the fire going until he’d been too sick to bring in more wood. By the time Dylan returned with her medical bag, a blazing fire cast warmth into the chilly room.

Libby put forth her most reassuring bedside manner. “You did well, Dylan. Now I need you to fill the wood box, while I see what I can do for the sheriff.”

He nodded and hurried outside.

Libby removed her coat and took a deep breath. Approaching Matt, she rolled up her sleeves. “I have to get your boots and coat off so I can examine you.”

A bleary gaze searched her face but Matt didn’t speak. Instead, he fumbled with his coat buttons until Libby pushed his hands aside gently and took over the task herself. She helped him to a sitting position and pulled one sleeve free, then the other. Tossing the
heavy sheepskin coat on a nearby chair, she moved to his feet. After a few tugs, his worn brown boots lay on the floor.

Libby’s fingers touched the warm leather holster around his lean hips, and her heartbeat rivaled Matt’s rapid pulse. As her knuckles brushed the front of his trousers, heat suffused her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Libby,” Matt whispered.

“What on earth are you sorry about?” The conversation gave her something to think about besides what lay beneath the gunbelt.

“Being such a bother. I ain’t used to bein’ sick.”

“I can tell,” Libby replied dryly.

“Pneumonia?” The single word sounded like a dirge.

“I don’t know,” Libby answered honestly.

“You’re the best I got, with Eli out of town.”

A spasm of coughing nearly choked him, and Libby held him in a sitting position until the bout ended. She eased him back. Shock rippled through her at his usually ruddy face that now matched the pillowcase. She sternly set aside her swirling confusion and removed the holster without any further embarrassment.

She opened her black bag and withdrew the stethoscope. She blew across the metal to warm it, then moved his shirt aside to lay the round end above his heart. The springy dark hairs on his chest grazed her fingers. She moved the instrument to listen to his lungs and heard a soft rattle. Matt had guessed correctly, but the illness hadn’t progressed as far as she had feared.

Focusing on his condition, Libby reviewed the procedures to break up both the congestion in his lungs and the fever that ravaged his body. She had helped her father care for folks with pneumonia, and she had dealt with her own share of patients with the same. It wasn’t inexperience that brought the fear
churning in her stomach. It was the knowledge that few people afflicted with pneumonia recovered, which stoked the profound fear that all her years of medical training could prove fruitless in saving Matt’s life.

Chapter 8

T
he hotter-than-hades desert scorched and burned, leaving a trail of bleached bones and hollow-eyed skulls. Sweat no longer dampened Matt’s shirt, but his dry tongue swelled and gagged him, and exhaustion overwhelmed him. Breathing seemed to take more energy than he possessed.

He had tracked the Comancheros through hell itself, and victory lay within his grasp. The renegades burst over a cactus-shrouded hill, their shrill screams echoing in his head. The war cries changed to rebel shouts, and cannons blasted from all sides. The Comancheros blurred, becoming blue-coated boys who emanated the stench of death. A soldier wearing the face of a child raised a saber and rushed him. His finger settled on the gun’s trigger, but recognition froze the survival instinct.

Dylan.

He couldn’t shoot, and he couldn’t escape the blade’s deadly arc. The sharp-honed edge reflected blinding sunlight, and Rachel appeared at his side, holding a swaddled baby in her arms. She lowered the cloth, revealing a tiny skeleton. Hysterical laughter cackled across her twisted lips and Matt covered his ears, but the demented sound grew louder. The maddened
voice changed to shrill obscenities, dripping with venomous hatred….

Coolness feathered across him, and a soothing voice whispered as if through a long black tunnel. From some inner reserve, he found the strength to cough. Pain wracked his body. Gentle hands cradled him, and the same comforting tone washed across him like undulating waves sweeping across grains of sand. Oxygen flushed his lungs, giving him the impetus to continue filling his chest with vital air.

“Matt, can you hear me?”

The disembodied voice took shape and substance. Matt concentrated all his will into lifting anvil-weighted eyelids. Dimness surrounded him, and awareness took a few moments to penetrate his foggy senses.

“Thank heavens, you’re awake.”

Matt turned to see a pale oval hovering over him. Meadow-green eyes peered at him from an anxious ivory countenance. The angel’s name eluded him, dancing at the periphery of his memory. He frowned and searched the clouds in his mind and, like a bolt of lightning, recognition struck him.

“Libby?” He hardly recognized the weak, scratchy voice as his own.

She smiled and nodded. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I been through a battle.”

“You’ve been fighting pneumonia. For a while I thought we were going to lose the war.”

“I feel like I did,” Matt muttered with a cottony mouth. “Water?”

She moved out of sight, returning a few moments later with a tin cup. A cool hand slid under his neck and raised his head. Greedily, he swallowed the icy water that slipped past his dry lips. All too soon the liquid disappeared and he leaned back against the pillow.

“Do you want more?” Libby asked.

Matt nodded. She repeated the procedure and this time his thirst was slaked. He closed his eyes, exhausted by the simple task of swallowing. He forced himself to open his eyes and remain awake. “How long?”

Libby lowered herself to the edge of the bed, her weight shifting his position slightly. “Two days since Dylan and I found you. I don’t know how long you’d been sick before that.”

“What day is it?”

“Sunday.”

“The last thing I remember is thinking I’d best get to work Thursday morning.” He frowned. She had said she and Dylan had found him. “Is Dylan here?”

“He’ll be here tomorrow morning to stay with you while I teach.”

Another thought struck Matt. “You been here the last couple days?”

She glanced down and smoothed the blanket by his side. “You’ve been very sick, and I didn’t think you should be alone.”

“What you’re saying is no one else would’ve stayed with me.” Bitterness laced his tone.

Libby’s eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t ask anyone.”

The rancor evaporated. “Why?”

Her gaze sidled away. “I had to make sure you were taken care of properly.”

Matt suspected she hid something from him, but he was too tired to unravel the puzzle. Blessed nothingness beckoned, and he surrendered to sleep’s allure.

“Read page thirty-eight.”

Matt awakened to Libby’s quiet instructions, and the rise and fall of Dylan’s young voice followed. He craned his neck and spotted them sitting at his pine table. A kerosene lamp burned brightly, casting shadowy figures on the wall.

“The sheriff’s awake,” Dylan cried. He scrambled down from his chair and rushed into the bedroom.

Libby followed more sedately and broke the silence with a quiet greeting. “Hello, Matt.”

Dylan grinned. “You were snoring so loud the walls were shaking.”

“I don’t snore,” Matt retorted. “What’re you doing here?”

“Miss O’Hanlon’s teaching me because I stayed with you today and I missed school. I bet you’re starving.” Dylan finally paused for a breath.

“I am kind of hungry, at that,” Matt said. He glanced at Libby. “I hate to be any more bother.”

Libby shook her head. “I already have chicken soup on the stove. Dylan can get you a glass of water while I get your supper.”

Matt found he had gained enough strength to hold the cup himself, and he drained the contents in a few gulps. Libby returned with a steaming bowl, a napkin draped over her forearm. She stopped by the bed and stood awkwardly.

“Can you feed yourself?” Libby asked.

He raised a trembling hand and shook his head disgustedly. “I don’t think so.”

“I can do it,” Dylan volunteered.

“I have a better idea. You come sit in the chair by the bed and recite your lesson while I help the sheriff,” Libby suggested. She perched on the edge of the mattress, apparently ill at ease.

“It doesn’t set right with me putting you out, Libby. Whatever you done, it worked and I’m grateful. You and Dylan don’t need to be staying with me anymore.”

“You could’ve died, Matt. I’m not going to waltz out of here and leave you to get sick again. Dylan will be here during the days for the rest of the week, and I’ll come by after school and make your meals for you,” Libby said firmly.

“Eli can come by and check on me, and I can have Dylan bring me something to eat from the café. No need for Dylan to miss school or you to risk your reputation by being here at all hours.”

“I think it’s a little late to start worrying about that. Open up.” Libby thrust a spoon of cooled broth at his mouth.

To escape being jabbed by the utensil, he did as she ordered. The warm liquid slid down his throat, soothing the rawness.

She pressed another spoonful at him, but he blocked the path with his hand. “What do you mean it’s a little late to worry about your reputation?” He narrowed his eyes. “Has Mrs. Beidler already been giving you problems about staying here?”

Libby shook her head. “Folks know you’re sick, but no one except Lenore knows you have pneumonia. I doubt Mrs. Beidler figured it out unless she’s come here to spy on you.”

“But people are bound to find out. That’s the way with gossip,” Matt argued.

“I’ve been careful, and your place is hidden from town. Besides, what could I have done any differently? Now stop worrying and eat.”

Libby cut off any more arguments with the broth-filled spoon. Matt surrendered to her obstinacy and hoped her reputation would remain unsullied. He didn’t need her on his already crowded conscience.

While she fed him, he feasted his hungry gaze on her. Though he’d seen little of her in the past week, she’d branded his thoughts and never strayed far from them. His memory had failed to recall the gold threaded through her auburn tresses and the flecks of blue in her green eyes. And he hadn’t noticed the tiny cleft in her stubborn chin or the dainty earlobes pinkened by winter’s caress. However, his recollection of her rounded breasts and small waist that flared to gently curved hips had lacked nothing but substance.
Her nearness played havoc upon his characteristic stolidness, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“Am I hurting you?” Libby asked.

“Not exactly,” Matt murmured.

To detract from his increasing discomfort, he concentrated on Dylan’s reading. The boy rarely stumbled over a word and when he did, Libby corrected him gently. Dylan’s animated face revealed his pleasure at performing for a captive audience, and Matt genuinely enjoyed listening. The boy had bloomed under Libby’s tutelage, and an odd mixture of jealousy and pride swirled within him.

“Very good,” Libby praised.

Dylan beamed and turned to Matt. “Now I can read all your papers so Dr. Clapper don’t have to.”

Matt’s face burned with humiliation. Dylan hadn’t meant to embarrass him in front of Libby, but the sting of his casual remark cut deep. He’d hidden his lack of education from most people, ashamed he couldn’t read or write a simple letter. Being a schoolteacher, Libby had far more education than he’d even dreamed of, and now she would see him as he truly was: unlearned and ignorant.

“Maybe the sheriff can sit in on your lessons and he can learn to read just like you have,” Libby suggested.

Startled, Matt shot a glance at Libby and expected to see ridicule, but found only a searching look.

“What do you say, Matt?” she asked.

Indecision plagued him.

“C’mon, Sheriff. I can help you, too,” Dylan implored.

One look at the boy’s earnest expression tipped the scales. He nodded. “Since I’m going to be laid up for a time, I may as well take advantage of my own personal teachers.”

Libby smiled and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. “You won’t regret it.”

Her light touch singed his bare skin, and despite his
weakness, desire heated his blood. He shifted beneath the quilts and another need made itself known.

“I, uh, need to take a walk,” he said.

Libby shook her head. “You almost died. You can’t just wake up and start walking around.”

“It ain’t exactly that I want to,” Matt muttered.

“Good, because you’re not getting out of that bed for a few days.”

“I don’t think that’d be such a good idea. The call of nature ain’t going to wait that long.”

Libby’s mouth closed and her lips quirked upwards. “You’re still not getting up. That’s why we have chamberpots.”

Unaccustomed to speaking to a woman about his bodily functions and anything related to them, Matt’s eyes refused to meet Libby’s. “I aim to walk out to the privy, and you ain’t going to stop me.”

Libby rose from the bed and stepped back. “Be my guest.”

Matt narrowed his eyes. She’d given in too easily. “Turn around.”

She shrugged and complied with his request.

Throwing back his blankets, Matt swung his underwear-clad legs off the mattress. He pushed himself to a sitting position and the room spun. He closed his eyes, trying to regain his equilibrium, but that only increased the dizziness. Before he lost what little he had in his stomach, he lay back down. The world stopped reeling and he opened his eyes cautiously.

“I warned you,” Libby said. Her voice lowered. “If you feel uncomfortable with me helping you, I’ll step outside for a few minutes and Dylan will stay with you.”

Matt frowned. “I figured you might be embarrassed, being an unmarried woman and all.”

Libby shook her head. “My father was ill for some time before he died and I took care of him.”

She whispered a few words to Dylan, then donned her coat. The door closed behind her and cold air eddied across the floor.

With Dylan’s help, Matt managed to swallow his dignity and gave in to the dictates of his weakened body. Libby returned a few minutes later with snowflakes powdering her hair and face.

“Looks like we may get a few inches of new snow,” she commented.

Matt nodded and appreciated her tact in not asking any embarrassing questions. A spate of coughing caught him off guard, and he choked for nearly a full minute before he could catch his breath. Libby appeared beside him, concern creasing her forehead.

“Dylan, could you get me the camphor?” she called.

He brought a small jar to Libby, his worried gaze settling on Matt.

The strength Matt thought he’d regained had disappeared, and he had to concentrate on clasping Dylan’s shoulder. “Don’t look so down in the mouth, son. The devil ain’t ready for me yet.” Matt’s grip slackened and his arm fell to the bed.

“It’s getting late, Dylan. I think you’d better head on home before your mother comes looking for you,” Libby suggested softly.

Dylan nodded but kept his attention focused on Matt.

“You heard Miss O’Hanlon. You’d best get going,” Matt said with a raspy voice.

The boy turned and put his coat on. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

Libby smiled and covered his head with a woolen hat, pulling the flaps down over his ears. “I’ll be watching for you. Good night.”

With a shy wave, Dylan left.

Returning to the bed, Libby picked up the jar of
camphor. She unscrewed the top and dipped her fingers into the mixture. A grimace of distaste crossed her face, her pert nose wrinkling.

“Smells pretty awful, don’t it?” Matt asked.

She smiled. “That’s why it works.”

Libby’s delicate hands whispered across his chest and Matt inhaled sharply. The light touch sent tingles shooting through his body, concentrating in the center of his masculinity. Her smooth motions tickled his chest hairs, and his senses congregated below the sensual massage. The muscles of his stomach tensed, twitching with each downward stroke.

He had to concentrate on something other than the blissful agony that stormed through his unshuttered defenses. He shifted his attention to Libby. An untamed curl had escaped her snug chignon and fallen across her puckered brow, obliterating the image of propriety. The concentration etched in her face appeared incongruent with the mindless task of rubbing in the camphor, but the telltale pink flush in her cheeks hinted at a crack in her businesslike demeanor.

“The camphor will cause you to cough more, but it should also break up the congestion in your lungs,” Libby said.

Her matter-of-fact statement riled Matt. “You get that out of a book, too?”

“I told you, my father was a doctor. I used to help him.”

He noticed she didn’t meet his gaze but continued to massage the ill-smelling medicine across his chest. “Where’d you come from, Libby?”