Schulze, Dallas (42 page)

“Later,” Bridget promised soothingly. “You can talk to him later.”

“Now,” Lila insisted. Despite all their reassurances to the
contrary, she wasn’t convinced that death wasn’t hovering just out of sight.
“Now.”

“What’s wrong?” Bishop’s voice came from behind Bridget.

“She says she has to talk to you.” The minister’s wife clicked her
tongue in exasperation as she moved back. “See if you can get her to take a
swallow or two of this laudanum,” she said, thrusting the bottle into his hand.

“Drink this, sweetheart,” Bishop urged.

Lila ignored the bottle, her eyes searching his face for some sign
of his feelings. Certainly the words “I love you” were not emblazoned across
his forehead, but why would he look so worried unless he loved her?

“I’m not going there,” she whispered.

“Not going where?” From his expression, it was clear he thought
she was delirious.

“To hell. A gentleman would never suggest such a thing to a lady.”

“Then I’ll follow you to the pearly gates.” With a deft twist of
his wrist, he got the laudanum bottle to her mouth and tilted a healthy swallow
down her throat. “And I never did claim to be a gentleman.”

Lila closed her eyes. She was adrift on that gentle river again,
the pain floating somewhere far away from her. “Bishop?” Her tongue felt thick
and clumsy, but there was something she had to say. With an effort, she forced
her eyes open, staring up into his face for half a heartbeat.

“What is it?” His fingers were cool against her forehead again and
she let her eyelids fall shut, thereby missing the impact of her words.

“I love you too.”

***

Five
months later

She wasn’t exactly grateful that she’d been shot, Lila thought as
she carefully sprinkled water over what she hoped was going to be a perfect
batch of biscuits. And certainly she’d never dare even hint at such a thing in
front of Bishop. The one time she’d suggested that her injury had had some
benefits, he’d become irate and it had taken her some time to calm him down.

It was just that there was always sunshine behind even the darkest
of clouds, and she was inclined to think—if not say out loud—that the sunshine
behind this particular cloud had more than made up for the rain it had spilled
into their lives.

If she hadn’t been shot, it might have taken months or years for
Bishop to admit that he loved her, even to himself. And she’d been so busy
telling herself that she couldn’t be in love with him that she might not have
come to her senses any sooner. That alone was worth one small bullet wound,
particularly since, other than a certain stiffness in her shoulder, she hadn’t
been left with any permanent physical damage.

Bishop’s vow to kill whoever had shot her had gone by the boards
when young William Smythe came forward and confessed the deed. He’d taken a gun
from his father’s study and was playing at being a gun-fighter when the weapon
went off. He’d made his confession despite his mother’s loud insistence that he
say not a word to anyone. There had been no doubting the boy’s contrition, and
Bishop had accepted his apologies. When William told his father what he’d done,
Franklin said it was past time the boy went away to school, where he’d learn
some discipline. Sara had refused to hear of it but the banker had surprised
everyone by overruling her. William had departed for military school in
Virginia.

Later Lila had overheard Bishop tell Douglas that it was a shame
William had turned out to be the villain-—he would have felt a great deal
better if he could have bashed someone’s face in. She frowned a little as she
stirred the water into the dough, careful not to mix it too much. Her brother
and Bishop were still far from best friends, but at least they’d come to some
sort of understanding. Susan had been right— once Douglas was assured that she
was happy, he’d stopped insisting that she go back to Pennsylvania.

At least the rift between her and Douglas had been patched
up—another good thing to come of her being shot, she thought as she turned the
soft dough out onto a lightly floured section of the table and kneaded it
quickly—just a few strokes, enough for it to hold together but not too much or
the dough will toughen, Bridget had told her repeatedly.

The back door opened as she was patting the dough out. Bishop and
the children entered, bringing a rush of cold air with them.

“Pa says it looks like we’ll have snow before morning,” Gavin
announced as he took off his coat.

“I hope it lasts until Christmas next week,” Lila said.

“I want to make a snowman,” Angel announced. She tilted her chin
up to allow her father to get to the top button on her coat.

Looking at the three of them, Lila felt a foolish lump come into
her throat. Though she couldn’t say for certain that it was her getting shot
that had welded them into a family, it certainly hadn’t done any harm. Afraid
that he was going to lose her the way he’d lost his mother, Gavin had looked
for something solid to hold onto and had found his father there for him. Not
that they didn’t butt heads as often as not, she admitted. But at least the boy
knew Bishop cared about him.

A thin wail from the parlor made it clear that the newest member
of the McKenzie family had awakened from her nap and was not pleased to find
herself alone. In the six weeks since her birth, she’d grown accustomed to
being the center of attention. Named Margaret Ann, after both her grandmothers,
she was well aware of her own importance in the universe and had a healthy set
of lungs to announce her displeasure if things didn’t go the way they should.

Lila had just picked up a glass to cut the biscuit dough and she
glanced unhappily at her flour-coated hands. “Bishop?”

“I’ll get her,” Gavin volunteered before his father could respond.
Though he pretended a manly indifference to his baby sister, Lila knew he was
as enamored of her as the rest of them were.

“Me, too,” Angel said. “Maggie likes me.”

“Maggie likes anybody who pays attention to her,” Gavin said with
cheerful cynicism. “She’s too little to know better.”

“When he gets older, he’ll figure out that adults like people who
pay attention to them, too,” Bishop commented as he shrugged off his coat and
hung it on one of the pegs by the door. Crossing the room to where Lila was
carefully cutting out biscuits, he slid his arms around her waist and tugged
her back against him.

“Careful. I’m making biscuits and they’re going to be really good
this time. Bishop!” His name was a muffled shriek of protest as he buried his
cold face against the side of her neck.

“You wouldn’t want me to get frostbite, would you?” he asked
innocently. His hands slid upward, gently cupping her breasts.

“I suppose you’re just warming your hands,” Lila said, suppressing
a shiver of awareness.

“What else would I be doing?” Bishop nibbled her ear.

“A more suspicious woman might think you were making improper
advances,” Lila suggested breathlessly.

“A gentleman would never even think of such a thing,” he protested
as she turned into his arms.

“That’s just one of many reasons I’m glad I didn’t marry a
gentleman,” Lila said as his mouth closed over hers.