Twice Blessed (6 page)

She whirled. Escape. She must escape, or they would make her pay for the crime that was not hers. She had to leave
.

Now … before it was too late
.

The shooting at the bank was over, but the questions would now begin. And she had no answers. At least, none anyone would believe
.

How could she have been so stupid? That question had been on everyone's lips as soon as last week's grim events became known. No one would listen to her. Even if a few people did, no one else would believe them. After all, how could she have been so stupid
?

She had believed Miles when he said work was going well, that all their dreams would come true, that soon he would have enough money to take her on that honeymoon to St. Louis she had dreamed of when she found she loved him
.

And she had believed he loved her
.

Everything had been lies. There had been no work, and she had nothing left but nightmares
.

Tears burned in the back of her throat, but she refused to let them fall. Had Miles ever loved her, or had that been just another lie?

She had been a fool. Never again would she be such a fool
.

Picking up the small carpetbag she had packed clandestinely, she looked around. Only the fire on the hearth lit the room. Yet she could see the quilt lying across the back of the battered settee, the tarnished candlesticks on the mantel, and the rag rug covering the uneven floor. She would never see any of these things again
.

A fist struck the front door followed by a shout of, “Open the door!”

She took one step toward the back door, then another, hoping no shadow would reveal where she stood. Her breath snagged on the fear halting her heart
.

“This is the sheriff. Open up, or we'll take down the door.”

Time and hope and all her dreams had run out. She turned and pulled the quilt off the settee. Throwing its dark side over her shoulders, she fled through the kitchen and out into the night, far from the men milling around the front porch
.

She had to leave
.

Now … because it was too late
.

Behind her, she heard, “She has to know
.”

“How could she not know?” another voice asked.

“Only a fool wouldn't have known.”

“Maybe she knew before he—”

“No!” Emma sat up and clutched the bed covers to her breast. “No, I didn't know! I didn't know! I …”

She silenced herself before she could wake Sean, who should be asleep in the other bedroom. She cradled her face in her hands as icy waves crashed over her, drowning her in the fear she could not escape. Cold sweat oozed along her back.

It was over!

It was over, except in her dreams. No, this was no dream. It was the nightmare that crept out of her memories to haunt her. Could the authorities still be looking for her with the intention of hanging her?

She should not have fled Kansas. That labeled her as guilty, but she could not stay and let them paint her with Miles's wickedness. She had been a fool. A fool to believe him and his tales of the wondrous life they would share. Now every night, as the past tormented her, she was paying the price of his crimes.

Slipping her feet over the edge of her bed, she drew a bright blue coverlet around her shoulders. She went down the stairs and into the parlor. Rain struck the windows. Usually she liked that homey sound, but not tonight. She lit the lamp and sat on the rocking chair at the base of the stairs. With her feet drawn up beneath her, she huddled against the cushions.

She feared she would never find an escape from what she could not forget. Even though she had done nothing wrong … no, she would not think of it any longer.

It was over.

It was over. She did not need to look over her shoulder every moment. She did not have to avoid people, knowing what they were thinking when they would not meet her eyes. She did not have to start at every noise as if—

A fist pounded on the front door once, then twice. Someone shouted her name.

Emma leaped to her feet. A yowl exploded through her head, and sharp claws struck her bare foot. Queenie raced out of the room, every hair on her back raised, looking like a furious porcupine. She heard Sean jump out of bed upstairs.

Ignoring the blood oozing across her left foot, Emma started for the door, then paused. Who was calling at this hour? It must be—as if on cue, the short case clock by the stairs chimed twice. Two in the morning! Who was knocking on her door at this hour?

She took a step toward the kitchen and the back door, then stopped. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to calm herself. This was Haven. The past was miles and another life away.

“Emma!” The man's shout sounded desperate. “Please open up! We need your help!”

Muffled weeping ripped Emma from her terror. Someone was sobbing with heart-wrenching grief. A child! Sean? She glanced up the stairs, then realized the sound came from the front porch.

She ran to the door and threw it open. Lifting the lamp, she looked out into the night. “Noah!”

“We need your help.”

“We?” She pulled her gaze from him to see a dark-haired child next to him, clinging to his trousers and crying. Both of them were drenched from the rain. He carried something wrapped in a blanket in his arms. Another child?

Throwing the door open as far as it would go, she called, “Come in, come in.”

“Thank you.” His voice rumbled oddly about her parlor.

She was shocked to realize that, except for Reverend Faulkner, she could not recall the last time a man had come to her house. Shaking that irrelevant thought from her head, she drew the child—a little girl, she noted—in and closed the door. On the stairs, Sean was gripping the banister, his mouth as wide as his eyes.

“Is here all right?” Noah asked, pointing to the bare floor in front of the parlor stove.

“All right for what?” Emma set the lamp back on the table and blinked as its glare shimmered on his black silk vest and white shirt, which were newer than what he had worn when she saw him at the store.

“For you to check him over and see if you can help.” He squatted, putting the blanket and what was wrapped in it on the floor. Water pooled around him.

The little girl tugged on Emma's coverlet and whispered, “He's hurt. He's hurt bad. Can you make him all better?” Luminous tears filled her brown eyes.

Emma was not sure which one to respond to first. She flinched when she heard a yip and a low growl. A dog? Butch was sleeping in the barn. She stared at the blanket. Noah Sawyer was carrying a dog into her house in the middle of the night? What was this all about? She wanted to ask, but silenced her curiosity. Her questions might lead him to ask some of his own.

“Emma, please!” He grasped her arm and pulled her closer to the dog. “I've been told you have a way with animals. Can you help Fuzzball?”

“Fuzzball?” She knelt beside him.

He did not look at her. “I know it's a foolish name for a dog, but Belinda chose it.” He lowered his voice beneath the little girl's weeping. “Can you help him?”

Emma reached toward the small, brown dog. It could not be more than a pup. “Shh,” she said. “Good Fuzzball.”

The dog snapped at her and growled weakly.

Noah bent forward to calm the dog. “She's going to help you, Fuzzball.” He cleared his throat, looking abashed to be caught talking to a dog as if it were a child. “Sorry, Emma. He doesn't understand.”

“Of course not. It's all right. I get cranky when I'm not feeling my best, too, as you know.”

“I guess I do.” He met her eyes and gave her a swift smile.

She looked away from the naked honesty on his face. It made her uncomfortable. When he pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear, she gasped. Surprise burst into his eyes, and he jerked back. He stared at his hand, clearly unable to believe he had done something so familiar.

“Just hold Fuzzball while I check him,” she said, hating that her voice quivered. She did not want her breath to grow frayed at the touch of this man, who was still very much a stranger. She gritted her teeth to keep her question steady. “What's wrong?”

“He's been shot.”

Her fingers froze on the rough blanket as she stared down at the blood soaking through it from the dog's right hind leg. Slowly she raised her gaze to meet Noah's eyes, which were as brown as the pup's, but now were filled with a fury that warned he would be a fierce enemy.

“Shot?” she asked. “Who shot him?”

His mouth worked before he asked, “Will you help him before we go into all that? If he dies—” He glanced over his shoulder. “If something happens to him, Belinda will be heartbroken.”

Emma nodded. “Hold him while I check him.” Without looking up, she asked, “Sean, will you get some towels so they can dry off?”

“Yes, Miss Delancy.” He ran back up the stairs.

“Sean?” repeated Noah, grasping her hand as she reached past him to push Cleo's nose away from the dog before the cat created more problems. “What's
that
lad doing here?”

“Noah, can't everything else wait until I've had a chance to tend to your dog?” She twisted her hand out of his loose grip.

He nodded with reluctance, but his mouth remained in a tight frown.

Emma bent to look at the dog so she would not remind Noah that he should not come to her house begging a favor and then sound irritated because she had opened her home to someone else in need. Nor should he touch her so frequently. It unsettled her far too much.

When he cradled the dog's head in his hands, she could not help noticing how gentle they were. His fingers were long and tapered, like an artist's, but possessed that gentle strength. Something had stained them, outlining every thread etched into his palm.

Emma told herself to concentrate on the dog, not Noah's hands. She quickly discovered the bullet had only nicked the dog's leg.

“Keep him still, Noah.” She stood.

“Where are you going? If you need something from the store, I can get it for you.”

“No need to go to the store. I've got some medicine and bandaging in the kitchen.”

She gathered what she needed and came back into the parlor. She cooed soothing sounds as she knelt again. Fuzzball relaxed beneath her touch. It was true. She did have a way with animals, for she had learned to tend them at her father's side on their farm in Missouri before they moved to Kansas. He had supplemented his storekeeping income by taking care of his neighbors' beasts when they ailed.

Hearing sobs behind her, she said, “Noah, I can tend to Fuzzball alone. You might want to see to your young companion.”

“Companion? Oh, Belinda.” He came to his feet and crossed the room to where the little girl was sitting in the rocker by the stairs.

As he comforted the little girl who must be his daughter, Emma washed the dog's wound and bandaged it. She doubted if the wrapping would stay on long, for Fuzzball would want to tend to it himself as soon as he was able. And that was the best kind of healing, her father had taught. People should let their beasts do what they could to heal themselves.

But a touch of laudanum would keep Fuzzball from chewing off the bandage tonight. She watched as the dog licked the diluted medicine eagerly. When he rested his head on his front paws and began to snore lightly, she washed her hands.

Tending to the dog had been the simple part, she knew when she stood again. Noah was scowling at Sean, who was coming down the stairs. The boy glared back at him, his rounded chin jutting out like a foolish prizefighter's.

It was scant comfort that she probably would not have to worry about the nightmare returning tonight. She doubted if she would get any more sleep during what was sure to be a long night.

CHAPTER FOUR

Emma smiled at the little girl, who was still wiping tears off her pudgy cheeks. The child was sitting on the sofa, her short legs in damp stockings sticking straight out past the cushions. Emma guessed the little girl was no more than five years old. One black braid flowed down her back, and she twisted the other in her fingers.

Gently Emma took her hands and bent so her eyes were level with the child's. “Your name is Belinda, right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she whispered. “How is Fuzzball? Is he going to die?”

“Fuzzball is going to be fine, but you'll have to let him rest a lot in the next two or three weeks. He has to get better slowly.”

“He isn't going to die then, is he?”

She smiled her thanks to Sean as he held out two towels. Handing one to Noah, she dropped the other one on Belinda's head. The little girl abruptly giggled.

Noah's stern face eased, and Emma could not mistake the love he had for this child. Was that the reason he had come all the way from his farm in the middle of a rainy night to find help for the dog? His gaze turned toward her. His eyes narrowed. She wanted to ask him if he was distressed because she had witnessed his feelings for his child. That would only start another argument, and she was too tired for that tonight.

“No, Belinda, he isn't going to die,” she said as she rubbed the child's wet hair gently. “He shall be right as rain in no time.”

“Good, because I don't want Papa to have to shoot that mean old Mr. Murray.”

“Belinda!” Noah said, embarrassment filling his voice. “She's just distressed, Emma. She doesn't mean what she's saying.”

Emma straightened and smiled. Handing the damp towel to Sean, she thanked him before saying, “I understand. If …”

Her smile fell away before Noah's candid stare. It reminded her that she was wearing nothing but her nightdress. Its muslin did more to emphasize her curves than to hide them. A grin edged along his lips, and his eyes began to twinkle as they had when he had leaned toward her behind the counter in the store. A flush swept over her, warming her and making her aware of every inch of herself … and him. She had thought he was about to kiss her then. And now?