Schulze, Dallas (41 page)

“She seems to be adapting pretty well,” Bishop said stiffly. Damn
him for knowing just where to strike. How many times had he seen Lila walk down
that same street and thought that she looked like a hothouse rose plunked down
in a bed of cactus?

“Lila’s stubborn. She won’t give up easily. But do you honestly
think she’ll be happy here?” Douglas didn’t wait for an answer but continued,
digging the knife in a little deeper. “You said yourself that there’s not a
decent doctor within reach. What if she needs medical care?”

Bishop had no answer. It was one of the realities of life on a
frontier where doctors were few and far between. When Bishop didn’t say
anything, Douglas’s temper snapped. “My God, man, isn’t it enough that you
treated her like a whore? Must you put her life in danger, as well?”

Bishop was across the jail before Douglas finished speaking. He
caught a fistful of the other man’s shirt, jerking him forward until only
inches separated them. “If I ever hear you use that word in connection with my
wife again, I’ll kill you with my bare hands, brother or no.”

Douglas flattened his hands against Bishop’s shoulders and shoved
him away. His eyes were bright with fury, his fair skin flushed with it. “Fine
words from the man who ruined her,” he said with a snarl. “I invited you into
my home as a friend and you seduced an innocent girl and then just walked away.
Didn’t it occur to you that there were obligations that went along with taking
her virginity?”

“It occurred to me but I thought she’d be better off without me.”

“I can’t argue with you there,” Douglas said bitterly. He jerked
his clothes into place with quick impatience.

“There’s no point in going over this again,” Bishop said tiredly.
“What’s done is done.”

“That’s what you said at the wedding. It covers a lot of ground,
doesn’t it? Is that supposed to make what you did all right, just because it’s
done?”

“If I could change things, I would.” But even as he said it,
Bishop knew it was a lie. He wouldn’t change anything if it meant that Lila
would no longer be a part of his life.

Perhaps Douglas recognized the lie for what it was because his
expression took on a new edge of contempt. “Everything worked out very nicely
for you, didn’t it? You married a lady, got a mother for your children, someone
to clean house and cook meals. Oh, yes, and someone to warm your bed. You
certainly did get quite a bargain.”

Bishop wondered if Douglas would feel better if he knew just how
chilly his bed had been until recently, but he wasn’t about to discuss the
intimate details of his marriage with his brother-in-law.

“I’m not keeping Lila a prisoner here” was all he said. “But I’m
sure as hell not going to hogtie her and put her on a train with you.”

“I can see I’m wasting my time,” Douglas said.

“I guess you are.”

Douglas started to say something more but, before he got a word
out, they both heard the unmistakable report of a gunshot. Bishop was moving
before the echo had faded. When he first came to Paris, stray gunshots were not
uncommon occurrences. He’d soon put a stop to the casual dispensing of bullets.
Other than his encounter with Dobe Lang, it had been months since anyone had
fired a gun in town.

“Stay here,” he told Douglas on his way out of the jail. Douglas
ignored him, of course, following him out onto the boardwalk. Bishop didn’t
have to guess as to where the shot had been fired. People were gathering at the
far end of the street, surrounding a figure lying on the ground. Cursing under
his breath, Bishop lengthened his stride. Just what he needed. Some damned fool
had probably shot himself in the foot, which would just serve to add fuel to
Douglas’s arguments...

His stride faltered, his thoughts fragmenting momentarily when he
caught a glimpse of pale-yellow cotton spread across the dusty street. Lila had
a dress just that color. Every time he saw her wear it, he thought that it
looked as if the cloth had been woven of pure sunlight. There must be a hundred
dresses that color, he thought. It couldn’t be Lila—

Even as he broke into a run, he heard Angel’s voice rise on a
shriek of pure terror. “Mama!”

Bishop offered no apologies as he shoved his way through the small
crowd. As he stepped past the last person blocking his view, he saw his worst
fears realized. Lila lay on the street, her skirts pooled around her like a
spill of sunshine. He wanted desperately to believe that she’d just fainted.
But the ominous red stain that had crept across her shoulder made that
impossible.

Bishop dropped to his knees. Angel knelt on Lila’s other side, her
small hands tugging at Lila’s arm, her voice rising on a shrill crescendo of
fear, repeating the word “Mama” again and again.

“Oh, my God.” Douglas’s words were more prayer than blasphemy.

“Take Angel,” Bishop ordered without looking at him. He set his
fingers against Lila’s throat, seeking a pulse. He found it, reassuringly
steady and strong. He was only vaguely aware of Douglas stepping over his
sister’s body and scooping Angel up into his arms. She struggled against him,
screaming hysterically. Douglas tightened his arms around her, stilling her
struggles with gentle force, murmuring meaningless words of comfort that had no
effect.

“I need a knife,” Bishop said to no one in particular. Half the
town carried knives. As soon as he voiced his request, several were proferred.
He took the nearest one, a hunting knife with a wickedly sharp blade. Bishop
hooked the tip under the front opening of Lila’s gown and slashed the fabric
open all the way to the arm. She stirred, murmuring something indistinguishable
as he peeled the fabric away from her skin as gently as possible. Her shoulder
was covered in blood, making it impossible to determine the nature of the wound
itself.

He was reaching for his handkerchief when there was a stirring in
the crowd. Suddenly Gavin was there. He stood frozen for a moment, staring down
at Lila’s still figure.

“Is she dead?” he asked, his voice unnaturally calm. But when
Bishop looked at him, he saw his own fear reflected in the boy’s eyes.

“She’s not dead,” he said shortly. “And she’s not going to die.”
He wouldn’t
let
her die. He pulled his handkerchief out and shook it
open. “Take your sister to the Sundays’ and ask Bridget to come to our house.
She’s tended a bullet wound or two in her time.”

“Who’d want to shoot Lila?” Gavin asked, bewildered.

“I don’t know but when I find him, I’m going to kill him,” Bishop
promised. “Now take your sister and do what I asked.”

Gavin hesitated only a moment longer before turning to where Angel
lay sobbing in Douglas’s arms. She went to her brother without protest. She was
no longer crying hysterically. Instead, her tears were soft and hopeless.
Bishop forced himself to tune out the sound of his daughter’s fear,
concentrating instead on mopping the blood from Lila’s shoulder. He didn’t want
to move her until he had some idea what kind of damage the bullet had done.

“How does it look?” Douglas knelt on the other side of Lila’s body
and watched Bishop work.

“Her pulse is strong.” Bishop took the handkerchief Douglas
offered when his own became too blood-soaked to be of any use.

“There seems to be a lot of blood,” Douglas said. “And she’s
unconscious.”

“That might just be the shock of being shot. The wound doesn’t
look too bad,” he announced, his voice shaky with relief as he uncovered the
bullet hole near the top of her shoulder. “I think the bullet went through and
the bleeding is already slowing down. The wound needs to be cleaned and
bandaged. Let’s see if we can get her home before she wakes up.”

***

Lila woke to the feel of someone driving a red-hot poker through
her shoulder. She cried out and tried to bring her hand up to push away her
attacker, but her arms were apparently bound to her sides. She would have
struggled but she heard Bishop’s voice over her head.

“Lie still, sweetheart. I’ll have you home in a minute.”

Sweetheart?
The endearment was enough to force her
eyes open. Her view was limited to the expanse of his shirt and the solid
thrust of his jaw above her. He was carrying her, she decided. That was why she
couldn’t move her arms, because they were held against her body. But that
didn’t explain the knife-sharp pain that stabbed her with every step he took.
She bit her lip against the need to cry out again and the sound emerged as a
smothered moan.

“I’ll get the door.”

That was Douglas. Lila was rather pleased with herself for
identifying his voice. It seemed quite a feat considering the pain that seemed
to be oozing its way downward from her shoulder to encompass her entire body.
She heard the click of the latch and then the light changed as Bishop stepped
into the house—their house.

“What happened?” In her mind, the question was clear and strong,
yet her voice came out weak and thready.

“You’ve been shot.”

Shot? The idea bounced in and out of her head in rhythm to the sound
of Bishop’s footsteps on the wooden floor. She couldn’t seem to make a
connection between herself and the word. But if she’d been shot, that would
explain the pain.

“The baby?” She would have put her hand to her belly if she could
have moved.

“That baby is fine,” Bishop said so firmly that she believed him
instantly. He couldn’t sound so sure unless he really knew.

“Don’t put me in the bed,” she told him. “I’ll get blood on the
sheets.”

“The sheets will wash,” he said shortly, and lowered her to the
bed.

Lila forgot all about the sheets and concentrated on not screaming
as pain shot from her shoulder outward until every inch of her ached.

“Scream if you want to,” Bishop said softly.

Lila felt his fingers against her forehead as he brushed back her
hair. She opened her eyes. Was it a trick of the lighting or her imagination
that made his skin look gray?

“Where’s Angel?” she asked, bits and pieces of memory floating
back to her. “She was with me. Is she all right?”

“She’s scared to death but she’s not hurt. I had Gavin take her to
Bridget’s and asked him to send Bridget over here.”

“Gavin will take care of her. He’s a good boy. You shouldn’t be so
hard on him. You’re going to drive him away if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Now just lie still until Bridget
gets here.”

His fingers felt pleasantly cool against her forehead, and Lila
wondered if she had a fever. Maybe he was mistaken and she hadn’t been shot at
all. She’d been very sick with fever once when she was little, and she
remembered how cool her mother’s hand had felt on her skin. But she didn’t
remember the fever hurting this much. Nor had their been any blood and, from
the sticky feel of her torso, she’d lost a considerable amount of blood.

“Am I going to die?” she asked calmly.

“No!” Bishop’s answer was quick and sharp. “I’ll be damned if you
will!”

“Watch your language.” The pain was starting to recede, leaving
behind a not-unpleasant numbness. “A gentleman doesn’t curse in front of a
lady.” Her eyelids felt very heavy and she let them drift downward. “Are you
sure I won’t die?” she asked dreamily.

“No!”

She heard Douglas’s denial but it was faint and far away, unreal
and unimportant. She drifted further away from the pain as if floating on the
glassy smooth surface of a broad river. It was so peaceful. So ...

“Lila!” Bishop’s voice was sharp and angry. His fingers caught her
chin in an ungentle grip, dragging her back into the real world. Lila’s eyes
opened and stared into the painfully vivid blue of his. “I’m not going to let
you die.”

“It’s really not your decision,” she told him, her voice weak but
unmistakably cross.

“You’re not leaving me. I’ll follow you to the gates of hell if I
have to and drag you back by your hair.” From the look on his face, she
believed he meant it. He looked as if he’d take on the devil himself, and she
wouldn’t have been willing to take bets on who’d win the battle.

“No one’s going anywhere near the gates of hell.” Bridget’s
acerbic voice preceded her into the room. “What kind of a way is this to behave
in a sickroom, shouting at the patient as if she were one of your prisoners?
Get yourself out of my way.”

With a last, commanding look at Lila, Bishop stepped back. As he
straightened, Lila heard Douglas speak from the other side of the bed. “You’re
in love with her, aren’t you?”

For a moment, the pain ceased to matter. Lila held her breath,
waiting for Bishop’s answer. When it came, his voice was so low that she had to
strain to hear him.

“Yes.”

“Here now,” Bridget said. “A swallow of this and you’ll sleep
right through me tending to your wound.”

Lila turned her head away, pursing her lips in refusal of the
bottle Bridget held to her mouth. “I have to talk to Bishop,” she shouted, only
the shout came out as little more than a whisper.