Maureen McKade (21 page)

The smell of fresh coffee lured her back to the stove, and armed with a cup of the hot, bitter liquid, she forced herself to work on lesson preparations for the following week.

Half an hour later, the door opened. She squinted through the dim light of the room at the slight figure. “Dylan, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be with the sheriff today.”

Dylan shrugged and made no move to approach Libby. “Naw. I figured he’d probably be sleeping.”

Libby frowned. “I doubt he’d sleep all day. He was hoping you’d visit him.”

“I seen him all week.”

Libby studied the young boy, noting he remained by the door. “Since you’re here, why don’t you come over to the stove and warm up?”

Dylan shook his head. “I’ll stay here.”

Libby stood, came around the desk, and walked toward Dylan. He shrank under her gaze, raising the scarf higher around his face. She stopped in front of
him and knelt down. Libby lowered the cloth. An angry red puffiness covered his left cheek, and vicious black and purple swelling nearly closed his eye. Horror rose in her throat. “Dylan, what happened?”

“I fell down.”

The obvious lie startled Libby. “Tell me the truth, sweetheart.”

Dylan thrust his chin forward and stared at Libby. He remained stubbornly silent.

Libby straightened and took his chapped hand in hers. “Where are your mittens?”

“Guess I lost ’em.”

His insolence challenged Libby to call him a liar, but she only grew more concerned. This defiant boy resembled more the urchin who first visited her rather than the excited student he’d become. She led him back to her quarters, pressed him into a wobbly chair by the table, and removed his scarf. The extent of his injury took her breath away and empathy filled her.

“I’ll get something to take the swelling down,” she said.

Libby grabbed a clean dishcloth and slipped outside. She snatched a few handfuls of snow, returned to Dylan, and knelt beside him. Carefully, she pressed the cold compress to his bruised cheek.

Dylan jerked away. “Ow!”

“I’m sorry, honey. Why don’t you hold it so I don’t hurt you?”

Without comment, Dylan did as she suggested. He swung his feet back and forth a few inches above the floor and stared at the tabletop.

Libby looked down at him and frowned. His hair lay matted against the back of his head, and she probed the swollen area with skilled efficiency. Blood continued to ooze out of the gash. Dylan yelped.

Libby leaned back to study him. “What happened?”

He shrugged.

Frustration laced through Libby. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stitch it.”

Dylan’s eyes widened with fear. “You mean with a needle?”

“If I don’t, the cut will keep bleeding and you’ll be a very sick boy. I promise I’ll be careful.”

She prepared a needle and catgut and set the black medical bag on the table beside Dylan. She squatted down. “I’m not going to lie and say it won’t hurt, but I’ll try to do it quickly.”

He nodded. The reddish purple mark contrasted sharply with his powder white complexion.

She stood behind him and brushed his hair away from the injury. After soaking a clean white square of cloth with carbolic acid, she pressed it against the wound gently. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to tell anyone.”

“I promise.”

“I’ve done this a lot of times. You relax and try not to move, and I’ll be done before you know it.”

“Okay.”

Libby removed the material from the cut and took a deep breath to ease the fluttering wings in her stomach. “I’m going to start now.” She eased the needle through the first flap of skin.

Dylan jerked and yelped. “Ow!”

Libby froze and pressed a hand to his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to do this to stop the bleeding.”

“It hurts.”

His plaintive cry stabbed Libby’s heart and moisture clouded her vision. “I’ll hurry, sweetheart.”

She steadied her nerves and wove the needle in and out to draw the sides of the gash together. Dylan remained motionless except for a few flinches. Sweat slid down Libby’s forehead, the task seeming to take forever. She finished with a quick knot.

Her hands trembled. She knelt in front of Dylan
and gently brushed away the two tear trails with her thumbs. “You did fine, Dylan.”

“You’re done?” he asked hesitantly.

Libby nodded.

He drew his forearm across his nose. “I tried not to cry.”

Libby’s insides caved in and she embraced him. His downy hair tickled her nose. “I’m proud of you, Dylan. I know grown men who aren’t half as brave as you.”

She released him and stood.

Dylan glanced at the bloody needle and her open bag on the table. “You have stuff like Dr. Clapper’s. Are you a doctor, too?”

Chapter 11

L
ibby straightened her mess. “What would you think if I were?”

“I’d like it, because if I got sick, I could come to you.”

She hated lying, but she didn’t have a choice. “Even though I’m not a doctor, you can still come to me and I’ll take care of you.”

“Like you done for the sheriff?”

“That’s right.” She placed her bag under the bed and perched on the edge of a seat next to him. “Do you have any dizziness, or feel sick?”

He paused a moment and nodded. “Not so much anymore, but this morning after Ma, I mean, after I fell down, I felt kind of sick.”

Libby trembled with barely suppressed rage and struggled to control her anger. How could a woman commit such an atrocity against her own son? She intertwined her trembling fingers and laid them in her lap. She had to remain calm and figure out what to do next. “Dylan.”

He glanced at her with suspicious eyes.

She leaned forward. “Your mother did this, didn’t she?”

Stony silence.

“When I was about your age, I got in a fight at
school. This boy was making fun of a younger girl because she couldn’t read very well, and I told him to stop it. He ignored me and pushed my friend down and tore her dress. I got so mad that I struck him, and he hit me back. When I went home that night my father asked me how I got the black eye, and I was scared to tell him. You see, I was afraid I would get in trouble because I threw the first punch. When I finally admitted what happened, he said I had a right to be mad, and though he didn’t like me fighting in school, he was proud of me. I had stood up for someone else. He went to talk to the teacher about the bully, and after that, we never had any problems with him. Maybe if you tell me who did this, I can help so it doesn’t happen again.”

Silence filled the room. Dylan seemed to ponder her words for a few minutes. Finally, his gaze lifted. “Why would the sheriff poke you?”

The inference took a moment to penetrate Libby’s mind, then humiliation and wrath blazed brightly. She swallowed. “Where did you hear that?”

“My ma was talking about you and the sheriff, and how you could come work for her when the sheriff got tired of poking you.”

Libby’s face suffused with heat. She forced a calmness she didn’t possess. “What she said wasn’t very nice, Dylan. I would never work for your mother.”

“I knew that. I told her and that mean Mr. Pearson to stop telling lies about you and the sheriff.”

“You defended us and she hit you, didn’t she?”

“Not right away,” Dylan admitted. “This morning she came to my room and said she had to punish me.”

Agonized empathy stole Libby’s breath, and tears filled her eyes. “You’re a very brave boy to go against your mother,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I’m not very brave. I was scared.”

Libby recognized the effort it took for Dylan to admit his fear. She clasped his hand, roughened by countless chores. “Only a fool wouldn’t have been scared. I’m glad you told me.”

Disbelief crossed his vulnerable features. “You’re glad I was scared?”

“I’m proud of you for admitting it. I care for you, and I hate seeing you hurt like this.”

Dylan stared at her a moment, then his face crumbled. “I don’t want to go back.”

Moisture stung Libby’s eyes. “You don’t have to. You can stay here with me.”

He threw his arms around her, and she held him tight against her shoulder.

She knew what Dylan had endured at his crazed mother’s hands, and she understood his helplessness. Libby’d had no one to help her escape, and desperation had made her a murderer. However, she could save Dylan. “Everything will be all right. I promise.”

A soft lump beneath his jacket pressed against Libby’s chest, and she released him.

She nudged the odd shape. “What’s in there?”

A red flush crossed Dylan’s face and he reached into his coat to pull out an old, ragged stuffed animal. “It’s my dog. The man who taught me cards gave him to me before he went away.”

Libby looked at the frayed toy and wondered how many nights Dylan had cried himself to sleep with his only friend tucked in his arms. A lump filled her throat, and a full minute passed before she could speak again. “He won’t bite me if I pet him, will he?”

Dylan giggled and Libby smiled at the wonderful sound.

“He’s not alive,” he said. “But someday I’m going to have a real dog and he’ll be only mine, but I’ll make sure he never bites you.”

Libby scratched the toy between its sagging ears. “What do you say all three of us have some lunch?”

He nodded eagerly.

An hour later, Libby put the last of the dried dishes away and glanced at Dylan. His eyelids drooped heavily and tenderness swelled within her. She picked up his scruffy dog. “He looks tired. Why don’t you take him and lie down on my bed?”

Dylan blinked and nodded. “Okay.”

He lay down on top of the covers with the stuffed animal under his chin, and Libby spread a blanket over them. “You can sleep if you’d like.”

She gently brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead.

He gave her a drowsy smile and closed his eyes.

As Libby studied the small figure, her hands curled into fists. She vowed no one would beat him again. She would keep that oath no matter what the cost.

Realization struck like a lightning bolt, and Libby pressed her knuckles to her lips. Dylan’s soulful blue eyes and trusting smile had burrowed deep into her soul. She could no longer deny it: she’d lost her heart to the young boy.

Matt buckled his gunbelt across his hips and checked the revolver’s cylinder, a habit he’d picked up while serving as a Texas Ranger. The ritual had saved his life during his time with the Rangers, as well as in the war between the states. He reached for his drover coat and shrugged it on. Then, with a tug on his battered hat brim, he left the warmth of his cabin.

The stars and moon remained obscured by the clouds and a few white flakes continued to drift down. Matt breathed in the fresh scent and pain exploded in his chest. He coughed, his eyes tearing, and he leaned against the porch post until the burning receded.

He couldn’t abide sitting around any longer. Besides, Saturday nights tended to be unruly, with cowboys blowing off steam from a week of tending stock and mending fences. Trouble was often averted
by his presence, and Matt’s sense of duty overruled Libby’s order to get plenty of rest.

Instead of saddling his buckskin gelding, he walked the short distance to Deer Creek and checked his office. A few more papers littered his desk, but nothing appeared vitally important. He continued down the boardwalk and followed the tinny sound of a piano.

The off-key notes led him to the Golden Slipper, a favorite place for rowdy men to have a few drinks, play some poker, and converse with something other than a horse. A smoky haze greeted Matt. A path opened and some of the men shook his hand, welcoming him back. He leaned against the bar, placing a booted foot on the brass rung.

The bartender set a cup of coffee on the pocked wood surface. “Good to see you up and around, Sheriff.”

Matt sipped the hot liquid. “Evening, Albert. I see the coffee hasn’t improved.”

Albert shook his bald head. “Coffee ain’t our specialty.” He leaned close. “I got a couple bottles of the good stuff, if you’re interested.”

He stared into Albert’s pale eyes. “You know I don’t drink.”

“It don’t seem natural for a man not to ever touch liquor.”

Matt shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think. Been quiet around here?”

“More or less. Rosco Weller tried to start a fight last night.” He leaned over the counter and hefted a double-barreled shotgun. “One look at old Bessie and he decided he didn’t want to fight that bad.”

“I don’t want you shooting anyone.”

Albert appeared hurt but set the weapon back in its proper place. “Now, Sheriff, you know what a peaceable man I am. Glad to see you back on your feet. But
I suppose it wasn’t too bad to be in bed, when you got a woman to share it with.” He elbowed Matt.

He stiffened. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Everyone knows about you and the schoolteacher.”

“What does everyone know?” Matt asked in a deadly calm voice.

Albert stepped back. “Well, that she took care of you while you were sick.”

Matt grabbed Albert’s stained apron front and jerked him halfway across the bar. “That’s right, she did. And that’s all she done.”

Albert raised his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

“If you hear anyone else sullying Miss O’Hanlon’s name, I expect you to set them right. Do I make myself clear?” The red-faced bartender nodded and Matt released him. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He strode to the door and left the cacophony behind. A few minutes later, Matt entered a smaller saloon. Fewer people and no dance partners made the Plug Nickel’s atmosphere tamer. He joined Eli at his usual table.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” Eli scolded. “Didn’t Libby tell you to rest?”

Matt shrugged. “It’s Saturday night.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Most of my business comes on Saturday nights.”

“In other words, you know better than Libby what’s best for you.”

He glared at Eli. “You’re being ornerier than usual. Did Lenore finally come to her senses and throw you out?”

Eli snorted. “You need a wife to shorten that fuse of yours.”

“Not a wife, just a willing woman.”

“She’s got you going, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Eli shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you want to make yourself miserable, who am I to take away your fun?”

The bartender delivered coffee in a chipped cup to their table and returned to his place behind the plank-and-barrel bar. Companionable silence surrounded the two men.

Matt removed his hat and tossed it in the center of the rough-hewn table. He leaned back and threaded his fingers across his waist. “What am I going to do?”

“Is that a real question, or just a piece of rhetoric?”

Matt ignored the remark. “Albert, over at the Golden Slipper, told me there’s been rumors about me and Libby.”

“You didn’t expect any?”

Matt shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “I figured she knew what she was doing.”

Eli arched a gray eyebrow. “So none of it is your fault?”

“I didn’t ask her to stay with me.”

“Did you expect her to abandon you like your wife did?”

“Leave Rachel out of this.” Cold fury laced the brittle words and he glared stonily at Eli.

The doctor tamped the tobacco down in his pipe calmly. “It matters if Rachel’s ghost is holding you back from doing right by Libby.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe Libby doesn’t want anything to do with a sorry son-of-a-bitch like me?”

“If that were true, she wouldn’t have nursed you.”

Matt pounded his fist on the table, sloshing coffee on the surface. “Don’t! I been to hell a few times in my life already. I ain’t going back.” He slammed back in his chair, rubbed his jaw, and fought the urge to flee. He didn’t know if he wanted to run from Libby or from himself. Whiskey beckoned, promising to rid him of the newfound confusion. He was tempted to
let the cheap liquor numb him against the onslaught of crushing memories.

“Plenty of men came back from the war minus an arm or leg, and their wives didn’t cuckold them,” Eli said. “Rachel probably used your scar as an excuse to continue what she’d been doing all the while you were gone.”

Matt stared past Eli and thought back to the day he’d returned from the war. He’d spent three months in a Confederate hospital, recovering from the saber injury and a bullet to his shoulder. The trip back to Texas took nearly the same length of time, and he’d arrived without warning. He’d grown pale and haggard under the hardships he’d suffered, and his appearance had shocked Rachel. He no longer resembled the man Rachel had married, and she never again allowed him to touch her. Instead, her contempt for him had burgeoned—until she’d thrown her indiscreet affairs in his face, accusing him of being less than a man and unable to satisfy her.

The venomous words wounded Matt critically, and he remained her husband in name only, while his beautiful and once beloved Rachel allowed every other male in the county to bed her.

“Libby’s not Rachel,” Eli said, uncannily guessing Matt’s thoughts.

Matt tried to picture his dainty wife’s whitish gold hair and china blue eyes, but the willowy woman in his mind had auburn curls and freckle-flecked cheeks. The vision brought an ache to his chest. Libby possessed a strength of character he had never witnessed in Rachel. Libby’s concern and tenderheartedness extended to those less fortunate than her, yet the softer emotions were tempered with stubborn determination. While she’d cared for him, he’d seen both sides. He’d also discovered a gold mine of passion beneath her reticent facade, and he wanted to excavate the depths of that treasure.

Would he strike it rich, or would he find fool’s gold?

Night crept into the schoolhouse and Libby raised the wick of her kerosene lamp. Pale yellow light illuminated her sparse quarters, relegating the darkness to the corners.

“Supper was real good, Miss O’Hanlon,” Dylan remarked.

Libby took the damp towel from him and hung it near the stove. “Thank you. I don’t often get to cook for anyone but myself. The water is nearly warm enough.”

Dylan scowled. “Why do I need a stupid bath?”

Libby crossed her arms. “Because you’re staying with me, and I don’t like dirty little boys.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with a little dirt.”

Instead of correcting the ornery boy, Libby narrowed her eyes.

Dylan squirmed under her stare. “Well, there isn’t.”

“A little dirt isn’t bad, but I’m afraid you have more than a little. You aren’t scared of a bath, are you?”

“I’m not scared of anything.”

“Good. I expect you to be stripped down by the time I have the tub filled.”

“Then you got to promise you ain’t going to watch me.”

“I promise.”

Libby turned away and rolled up her sleeves. The mutters behind her, followed by the nearly inaudible sound of clothing being removed, brought a smile to her lips.