The Devil's Own Desperado (3 page)

“I told you no doctor.”

Dr. Archer did little more than spare the man on the bed a glance over his shoulder. If the gun or its owner intimidated him, he never revealed it.

“Nice piece of hardware, mister.” The lightness in the doctor’s voice belied the unwavering gun barrel mere inches from his heart. “Put the gun down.”

Amelia marveled at Dr. Archer’s calm demeanor as he rummaged through his black bag. He dropped more bandaging material, metal instruments, and what appeared to be a spool of thread onto the nightstand.

“You’re not taking my arm, Sawbones.” Panic and desperation lent a hard edge to his voice. His gaze skipped from Amelia to Archer and then to the medical supplies on the bedside table. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran in rivulets down the side of his face and the length of his throat. The gun wavered and dipped. He gritted his teeth and a muscle ticked against the plane of his jaw. Tendons in his wrist stood out and his knuckles grew white as he struggled to hold the weapon steady.

“I have no intention of taking your arm. You were shot in the shoulder, not the arm.” Archer dropped the bloody rag that had once been the man’s shirt to the floor, and then pulled more white bandaging materials from the black bag. “When Amy pulled your shirt from you, it started that bullet wound to draining. There’s no sign of gangrene, so the way I see it, sawing your arm off would be a waste of time.”

The man’s gaze darted from Amelia to Archer. Pain and terror darkened his eyes and left him panting like a cornered creature. “More like I’m so far gone, ain’t no sense wasting your time to cut my arm off because I’ll be dead in a day or so, anyway?”

Dr. Archer pushed the gun into the mattress with one hand and lowered the back of his other onto the gunman’s forehead. “You could still die, but until that arm has gangrene, I am not about to saw it off. You can keep it for now. The fact the wound is draining will probably keep you alive. You’re a lucky man.”

Amelia moved toward the doorway. It appeared the doctor had things under control. She had done her Christian duty. There was no need for her to stay in this room any longer.

Archer pried the gun from the stranger’s hand. “Amy, come and put this gun somewhere.”

Archer’s words halted her retreat. Amelia crept closer, but stopped when the man tried to push himself up.

“Give me my gun. I need it.”

He fell back when Dr. Archer gently held him by the other shoulder. “Lie still, you damned stubborn fool. You’re so weak you can’t even hold that gun steady enough to risk a shot. God knows what you would hit if you fired it.” Archer’s voice hardened. “But if you ever point another gun at me, I don’t care how nicely Amy asks, I won’t come out here to take care of you.”

Archer held the revolver out to Amelia, and then shook it when she didn’t move any closer. “Take this, Amy. I’m going out to my horse. I’ve got a few things in Chief’s saddlebags that I need.”

Amelia took the gun, though her stomach twisted and her hands shook, as if Dr. Archer had handed her a coiled rattlesnake.

The wounded man turned his gaze to her, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Give me my gun, lady.

“You don’t need a gun in this home,” Amelia said. The weight of the revolver in her hand sickened her. She hated guns and didn’t think highly of those who felt they needed to wear them. “No one here is going to harm you.”

“Like I’m going to believe you after you said you wouldn’t send for the doctor and you did anyway.” He shut his eyes. Goose flesh pebbled his skin. “God, I’m so cold.”

“I never said I wouldn’t send for Dr. Archer.” Amelia set the revolver on the nightstand, and tugged a blanket up over his shivering form.

Those wintry gray eyes snapped open again. “Lady, you had better hope I die if he takes my arm, because I’ll kill you otherwise. I told you not to get a doctor.”

He didn’t seem to be in any condition to do anything, but she wasn’t about to find out if he was more bark than bite. Amelia shook her head. “You can’t kill me if I have your gun.”

His gaze darted to the nightstand and the revolver lying among the doctor’s things. He reached for it, but fell back into the mattress with a deep groan. Sweat dripped from his face into the silvered-black hair at his temples and his chest rose and fell in rapid succession. “Lady, please, give me my gun. You don’t understand.”

“You don’t need it. No one is going to shoot you here.” Amelia picked up the revolver again and dropped it into the pocket of her apron. No, it didn’t need to be put somewhere, as Dr. Archer had suggested. It needed to be well hidden. Somewhere Saul’s inquisitiveness wouldn’t find it.

She paused in the doorway. “And my name is Amelia, not lady.”

He was delirious, that had to be it. He drifted in and out of consciousness, trying desperately to hold onto a single thought…any thought other than the memory of that kid’s face the moment the bullet entered his chest and ended his life.

He knew if he slipped under again, everything of that night would flow across his memory again. He wanted to forget it, forget all of it, because then it might not have happened. And he also knew that was a vain hope. It had happened.

An angel hovered over him, and pressed a cool cloth to his burning skin. He shivered, despite the heat roiling through him. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he wasn’t dead, because there weren’t angels where he would be spending eternity, and definitely not angels who ministered cool water and bathed his fevered flesh. He’d been told too many times where he would end up to think there were angels with cool water in that place.

He couldn’t figure out where he was. His brain was too muddled to reason it through. His shoulder throbbed like a son of a bitch. There was a vicious demon in his head, beating his skull with a hammer. He shuddered with the fever racking him. His throat was dry, and when he ran his tongue over his lips, they were peeling, and rougher than a corncob. He tried to ask for a drink of that heavenly cool water, but couldn’t form a word.

As if she’d read his mind, the angel gently lifted his head with her oh-so-cool-and-soft hand pressed into the nape of his neck. She held his head up and lifted a glass of water to his parched lips. He gulped the sweet-tasting liquid, only to have her pull it away.

His stomach lurched as the water hit it. He gagged on something vile lurking in the liquid.

This was hell, after all.

“…said the medicine he left for your pain has a very bad taste.”

His eyes slid shut. He was too exhausted and too weak to hold them open anymore. He was too sick to care about any medicine. He’d figure out who said that later, when his brain wasn’t fuzzy and his whole body didn’t ache. Later he would figure out what that vile brew was, as well. At the moment, it just didn’t seem important.

What seemed to be most important was surrendering to the darkness once more, where a soft voice whispered that he was safe, that no one was going to come gunning for him, that he was protected and would be cared for.

“…Mathews that live around here.”

Who were the Mathews? He knew he should know and that it should matter.

The angel smoothed another cool rag over his burning face and neck, pressed a wet cloth to his cracked, dry lips, and murmured that he was safe. The water, this time, was sweet as it trickled down his throat and he swallowed instinctively. It tasted just like heaven would taste to a man burning.

For the moment, he was willing to believe that the words were true and that the Mathews, whoever they were, were not a threat to him.

****

Amelia dozed in a chair at the wounded man’s bedside. He had been in and out of consciousness for three days. At times, his fever raged so high the heat radiating from him was like the warmth rolling off a red-hot stove. Other times, he was nearly cool to the touch. The wound in his shoulder had stopped draining.

Dr. Archer had been out daily to check on him, and seemed pleased with the way the wound was healing. He was lucky, Dr. Archer had said. He was young, despite the gray in his hair, and in good physical condition. The past day he had been sleeping deeply, an exhausted, but healthy sleep without delirious ravings and fevered thrashings.

Amelia could attest to his physical condition. In his delirium, she had struggled more than once to keep him quiet. There was more strength in his lean body than she would have thought. More than once, the muscles across his chest and in his arms had knotted as he struggled against some assailant known only to him. Amelia had a bruise on her arm where his iron fist had connected in one of those struggles.

A quiet groan broke from him and he stirred. His eyelids fluttered and he opened his eyes. His gaze darted around the room before he scrutinized her with cool, lucid eyes.

“You’re awake.” She looked away from that level expression. Those gray eyes hinted at things no person should ever see, or that no respectable lady should even try to imagine. His delirious ravings had convinced her he’d lived a life she never wanted to contemplate. His language had been enough to peel the hide from the toughest mule. Her mother would have been mortified to know that Amelia had heard such words.

“Yeah,” he grunted, his voice rough from lack of use. “I guess I am.”

Amelia stood and set her book on the seat of the rocker. “That’s good. Would you like something to drink?”

He shook his head and winced. His eyes closed for a moment. “That was a mistake,” he ground out. “Shouldn’t have moved my head. It feels like it’s splitting into lots of little pieces.”

Amelia pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “I think your fever has broken.”

“I still have my arm too, I see.” A thin ghost of a smile crossed his mouth. No warmth reached his wintry gray eyes. “Not sure if I should thank you for that or not.”

“Thank Dr. Archer. He didn’t see it necessary to amputate.” Amelia crossed the room to the doorway. She chose not to mention his delirious ravings, and his plea for the “sawbones” not to take off his arm. “I’ve got some broth on. I’ll go get you some of it.”

“Lady, I’m hungry enough right now to eat a whole yearling steer.”

“My name is Amelia, not lady. And Dr. Archer said I wasn’t to give you any solid food for at least two days after you woke up.”

He shot a bitter-cold glare at her. Amelia smoothed the front of her dress and suppressed the shiver threatening to rush over her. “You haven’t had solids in several days and with the fever you ran, the doctor is worried that you will vomit. No solid food, only broth and water to drink.”

“I don’t want broth, lady.” His brows lowered. The tone of his voice sounded younger than he appeared. “I want real food. Steak, fried potatoes, green beans, and carrots, with coffee to wash it all down. I don’t want broth.”

A smile tugged at Amelia’s mouth and she bit the inside of her mouth to stifle a laugh. Perhaps he was not quite so rough around the edges as he tried to act. “You sound exactly like Saul when he’s pouting and wants something he can’t have.”

“Who the hell is Saul?” He tried to push himself up, but gave up the effort. Sweat dripped off him, and his face drained of color again.

“My twelve-year-old brother. I’m sorry, but Dr. Archer was very plain about what you could and couldn’t have when you finally woke up. No solid food for two days.” Amelia walked to the bedroom door. “I’ll bring some broth for you.”

“Don’t bother,” he flung at her back.

A few minutes later, Amelia returned, carrying a tray. She set the tray on the nightstand, taking a moment to steady the wobbling table. “I’ll help you sit up.”

He shot a glance at the bowl of broth on the tray and shoved it to the floor. Amelia jumped back in time to avoid being splattered with the warm chicken broth. Anger with the waste, with the loss of one of her mother’s china pieces, and anger for his seeming ungratefulness flared up.

“That was rude and uncalled for.”

“I said I didn’t want that.”

Amelia forced herself to draw a calming breath before she turned her gaze to the man lying in her bed. He was in pain, he was in a strange place, and from the things she had heard him say in his delirium, he was on the run from someone, but none of those reasons was an excuse for his behavior. “You’re acting like a spoiled child, Mr. Evans.”

Something very dangerous glittered in the icy depths of his eyes. “How do you know my name?” The quiet, even quality of his voice was more chilling than an angry shout would have been.

“Saul went through your saddlebags and found a Bible with your name inscribed on the cover. At least, we assumed it was your name.” She neglected to mention Saul’s constant chatter about the man’s supposed reputation with a gun. “I’ve been reading your Bible while I watched over you.” Amelia knelt, and placed the shards of the bowl onto the righted tray. She slowly rose to her feet. “I’ll be back with a rag to clean the rest of this. Then I have chores to do. I’m afraid you’ll be by yourself for a while.”

“Suits me just fine, lady.” He looked out the windows, though Amelia knew he couldn’t see much with the gingham curtains drawn to keep the harsh light and heat of afternoon out of the room.

Amelia paused in the doorway, studying him. Her anger sparked to life, and this time, she didn’t quell it. “If you are always this rude and this uncivilized, it is no small wonder someone tried to kill you.”

He turned his head to her in a deliberate motion and his gray gaze raked up and down her frame before settling on her face.

Amelia had the uncomfortable sensation of being evaluated by a large predatory animal. She wanted to do nothing more than turn and flee the room. She forced herself to meet his gaze.

He was silent for a long moment as his brow slowly arched upward. “You’ve got an awful lot of grit for such a little bit of calico. I bet you’ve got enough grit in you to take a shot at me right now and kill me.”

Amelia forced a shiver away. That gaze could freeze a mountain lake in minutes. “Actually, Mr. Evans, I wouldn’t want to kill you. I have spent too much time over the last four days keeping you alive.” She backed out of the room and quietly pulled the door shut behind her.