Open Country Page 4

  “It’s sunny today but quite cold.” As she spoke, she ran her hand up his injured arm from elbow to shoulder, checking for heat and telltale red streaks, but finding only cool skin over firm muscle. Surprisingly firm, considering his stupor. The man’s bicep must be as big around as her thigh. Her lower thigh anyway.

  Realizing she was still stroking his arm, she jerked her hand away and moved to the other side of the bed. “I was told Texas was hot, but I’ve never been so cold. Are you warm enough? Would you like another blanket?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “How about a cup of warm cider? Broth?” Absently, she lifted his right hand and pressed her palm to his, measuring the long length of his fingers against her own. Despite their size and the numerous scars and calluses, his hands were surprisingly elegant with broad palms, long blunt-tipped fingers, and mostly clean, square-cut nails. Strong, hardworking hands. She liked that in a man. In a woman too.

  Lowering his arm back to his side, she studied his bruised face, trying to read the man behind the distorted features. “Are you a good man, husband? Am I your one and only wife, or do you have another waiting for you somewhere?”

  A disturbing thought.

  Where was he going? Where had he been? Whom had he left behind? He was a puzzle with too many missing pieces, yet one she felt driven to solve. “Who are you, Henry Wilkins?” she murmured, studying his battered face.

  The high, broad forehead indicated intelligence. The strong limbs bore proof of years of strenuous physical activity. His abundant white teeth spoke of a lifetime of good nutrition, a lack of serious illness, and an avoidance of tobacco.

  A clean-living man. And fit. Very fit.

  When she had helped the doctor change Henry from his soiled clothing into that ridiculously small nightshirt that had comprised his wedding garb, she had noticed how powerfully constructed her husband was—at least on his upper torso. Murray had insisted she exit the room when he removed Henry’s trousers, which was absurd since she was far too experienced to be flustered by such things.

  Absently running her fingertips over the knobby knuckles of his right hand, Molly lapsed into fanciful thoughts as she often did to sweeten the endless and often distressing chores of the sickroom. “Are you a cooper, Mr. Wilkins? A blacksmith? Is that scar on your wrist from a hot branding iron?” The sun-darkened skin of his arms and face told her he spent a great deal of time outdoors; the paler skin of his forehead indicated he wore a hat when he did. “Maybe you’re a miner. Maybe you’ve discovered gold, and the machinery you were loading was for your mine.”

  She brushed back a lock of hair she’d cleaned of blood, noting the soft sable brown was several shades darker than her own. “Do you have children, husband? Are they waiting for you to come home?”

  Another disturbing thought.

  Battling a feeling of confinement, she wandered idly about the room, finally coming to a stop at the window. The workers were gone, the breaks in the tracks repaired, and the passengers on their way again. Even the wind had pitched in, sweeping the sky clean of smoke from the smoldering floorboards of the abandoned passenger car, and leaving behind icy dewdrops on bare limbs and cactus spines to sparkle like diamonds in the morning sun. Except for tumbleweeds bouncing down the rutted road, the streets were quiet.

  All nice and tidy and back to normal. Except for two new graves on the hill north of town and the dying man in the infirmary.

  She pressed her hand against the windowpane. It felt cold against her palm.

  Don’t die.

  The thought came out of nowhere—unambiguous and irrevocable. Confusing. Even though the railroad settlement would send her and the children well beyond Fletcher’s reach, she realized she didn’t want it if it meant Henry Wilkins had to die.

  “Oh, Molly,” she murmured, her breath fogging the windowpane.

  “Don’t let emotion rule you. Remember Andersonville.”

  “Fifty-six. Eighty-three.”

  Startled, she turned, wondering who spoke. Only she and Henry were in the room, and other than a slight rattle in his chest, he rested quietly.

  She crossed to the bed and checked his pulse. A bit fast but steady and strong. His color was less gray and his brow felt cool. She studied him closely. There was no outward change, yet she sensed an awareness, as if he hovered just beyond reach—not quite there but not quite gone either—fighting for every breath, every moment he had left.

  Moved by his struggle, she laid her palm against his face. “Don’t give up.”

  His eyes flew open. His right hand shot out, the knuckles catching Molly high on her cheek. “Get it off!” he gasped and began tearing at the bindings around his chest. “Get it off! I can’t bre—” Suddenly he went limp. His eyes fluttered closed, and his arm fell back to his side.

  Stunned by the abruptness of the attack, Molly stood gaping, her palm pressed to her stinging cheek, ready to run if he moved.

  He rested quietly, eyes closed.

  Inching closer, she nudged his shoulder.

  He didn’t move.

  “Mr. Wilkins?” When he didn’t respond, she gave a gentle shake.

  “Henry?”

  Papa said in comatose patients the first signs of awareness often showed in the mouth and eyes. But with the swelling and that heavy beard, she could hardly even tell what he looked like. “Can you hear me, Mr. Wilkins?” she asked in a loud voice.

  “What are you doing?” Dr. Murray demanded from the doorway.

  She looked up with a grin, unable to contain her excitement. “He woke up. Just for a moment. He opened his eyes and spoke to me. That’s good, isn’t it?”

  Murray came to the bed and checked Henry’s pupils.

  Molly noted Henry’s left eye, although no longer dilated, showed minute movements like quick, tiny jerks. The right showed the same random movements. An improvement, but still worrisome. After listening to Henry’s chest through the stethoscope, Murray pressed a thumb against his injured arm and pinched his nipple.

  Henry never moved or gave indication of pain.

  “Involuntary,” Murray said, removing a vial of laudanum from his pocket. “A minor seizure. Maybe pain. Either way, this will help.”

  Molly frowned as she watched him fill the dropper. Was the seizure a response to pain or a reaction to too much medication? What if Henry was struggling to regain consciousness but was too drugged to do so?

  “May I shave him?” she asked.

  After administering the laudanum, Murray replaced the glass stopper and returned the vial to his pocket. “Don’t you have children to tend?”

  She ignored his surly tone. “It would make it easier to see how much water he’s taking.” And easier to tell if he was coming out of his stupor.

  “He’s dying. Leave the man alone so he can get on with it.”

  Molly bit back a rush of angry words. She couldn’t accuse the doctor of incompetence. Henry’s treatment met acceptable standards. The medications were appropriate to the injury even if the laudanum might be too freely given. Murray seemed to have a care for cleanliness and adhered to Listerian antiseptic principles, but beyond rudimentary attention, there was nothing—no sympathy, no interest, no emotion whatsoever. He gave off such an air of defeat, the room stank of it.

  Without waiting for his permission, she left to get what she needed. When she returned with shaving supplies, Murray was gone. Relieved, she bent to the task.

  It was more difficult than she’d expected. Because of the swelling, it was like shaving a lumpy potato, and by the time she’d finished, the poor man’s face bore a half dozen new lacerations. After wiping away the last of the soap, she pushed that errant lock off his brow and sat back to admire her work. A jolt of surprise ran through her.

  “Why, Henry Wilkins,” she chided in a wondering tone, “what have you been hiding under all that hair?”

  The man was handsome. Beyond handsome. If he managed to survive and his face healed without undue scar tissue, he might
even be beautiful . . . in an overgrown, roughly masculine sort of way. Definitely striking.

  She wondered what his smile was like. With all those lovely teeth, it should be a dazzler. She liked to see a man smile, especially since those with whom she normally came in contact rarely had reason to. She hoped Henry smiled often; otherwise he might seem too severe with that sharply defined jaw. Leaning closer, she noted tiny white lines in the puffy skin at the outside corners of his deep-set eyes. A squinter or a grinner. She poked his good shoulder. “You better live, Henry Wilkins. You owe me a smile at least.”

  Murray returned with an instrument tray, which he set beside the bed, and assorted surgical items, which he spread atop the tray. Scalpels, clamps, scissors, an atomizer, tubes of wire and horsehair ligatures, a serrated bone saw.

  As Molly watched him arrange the implements on the tray, a feeling of dread gripped her. “Do you intend to amputate?”

  “Probably best, although a waste of time.” Motioning her aside, he lifted the atomizer to spray carbolic antiseptic solution into the air above the patient.

  “It’s not salvageable at all?” she asked, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the irritating mist.

  “Why bother if he can’t use it? Better to be rid of a useless limb.”

  Molly didn’t believe that. She didn’t believe a man who fought so hard to live wouldn’t work just as hard to save his arm. And if he couldn’t fight for himself, she would have to do it for him.

  She put her hand atop Murray’s. “No,” she said.

  He twisted to stare at her, the atomizer still in his grip, his good eye round with surprise. Then anger transformed his face into a snarling mask. “Get out!”

  “We must try,” she insisted, using the soothing tone Papa had taught her.

  “We? You’re a doctor, are you?”

  “I’ve had some . . . experience.”

  “Haven’t we all?” With a harsh laugh, he tossed the atomizer onto the tray. “It doesn’t matter,” he added, brushing trembling fingers over the instruments, obsessively touching each item. “He’ll die. They all die, no matter what we do.”

  Molly looked down at her husband’s battered face. Murray was probably right; Henry would probably die anyway. But on the slim chance he didn’t, shouldn’t they at least try to keep him whole?

  “I can help,” she said.

  He slammed his palm onto the tray, sending the instruments into clattering disarray. “I don’t want your help, damnit! I just want you gone!”

  “Well, I never,” a woman’s voice snapped.

  Molly looked up to see Effie Beckworth in the doorway. “The children?”

  “No, no, they’re fine,” Effie cut in reassuringly. After sending Dr. Murray a glare of disapproval, she ignored him and spoke to Molly. “But a man is here. He says he’s related to your husband. He seems very angry. I think you should come.”

  Lovely. Just what I need. “Thank you, Effie. I’ll be there in a moment.” As Effie disappeared down the hall, Molly turned back to Murray, who was carefully arranging the implements in perfectly aligned rows on the tray. In a calm, firm voice, she said, “As Henry’s wife, Doctor, I have a say in whether you remove his arm or not. And I’m asking you to wait until I come back.”

  Murray didn’t look up. His fingers continued to play across the medical instruments like those of a pianist at his piano. Sweat sheened his brow. His body gave off a sour smell. When he spoke, his voice sounded distant and weary, as if every utterance was an effort. “I’ll do what I have to do.”

  COLD. DARK. THEN LATER—HOURS? DAYS?—A GRAY PLACE OF nightmare dreams and distorted echoes that sounded like the distant pounding of an ax against a hollow tree. Slowly pinpricks of light pierced the grayness, growing brighter with each beat of his heart.

  Then pain.

  It crouched on his chest like a demon with a hammer, driving hot spikes into his brain, his arm, between his ribs, until the unending agony sent terror roaring through his mind. Teeth clenched, eyes clamped tight against the burning brightness, he lay in shivering misery and tried to endure.

  Dimly, he heard a voice. He couldn’t hear the words but recognized it as a woman’s voice . . . soft, soothing . . . with the sound of the South in the rolling cadence. He focused on it with all his mind, knowing as long as he could hear her voice, it meant he was still alive and not alone. Time ebbed and flowed, but the pain stayed constant. Only her voice kept him from drifting into the abyss.

  After a while, the voice became two voices. A man and the woman. Arguing. It made his head hurt. Damn them. He turned toward them to tell them to stop.

  And everything spun out of control.

  Dizziness swamped him. His stomach heaved. Bile burned in his throat. Swallowing convulsively, he fought back wave after wave of churning nausea and waited for the spinning to stop.

  Finally, it did. And then all that was left was the pain.

  Sweet Jesus—am I dying? Dead?

  Blackness pressed like hands against his chest, forcing him down into the smothering emptiness that was more terrible than pain. He fought it, but his strength was gone and the hands were too strong.

  No!—I’m not ready—I want to go back!

  But already he was sinking down, down in a slow, spinning fall.

  Three

  EFFIE AND THE REVEREND MET MOLLY AS SHE CAME UP THE steps of their small clapboard house beside the church. It was a welcoming house, boasting fresh white paint on the rails of the porch and an abundance of ruffled curtains at the windows. The kind of house Molly would have liked had she and Papa ever stayed in one place long enough to make a home.

  “He’s talking to Mr. Harkness then he’ll see his brother,” Reverend Beckworth told Molly as he held open the door. “I said you’d wait for him in the study.”

  “You’re not leaving her alone with him?” Effie asked in surprise.

  “He might hurt her. Did you see how angry he was?”

  With a quelling look at his wife, the reverend turned to Molly. “His name is Brady Wilkins. Of Wilkins Cattle and Mining in New Mexico.”

  “Oh, my,” Effie murmured. “I didn’t realize.”

  Molly felt as if the floor had shifted beneath her feet.

  Effie rallied first. “Well, I don’t care who he is. He is a most unpleasant person, and I don’t think you should leave her alone with him, not at all.”

  Molly tried to steady her breathing. It had never occurred to her that her husband might be one of those Wilkinses. Even though she was new to the Southwest, she’d heard enough to know they were not a family to cross.

  Steering his wife toward the kitchen, the reverend gave Molly an encouraging smile. “Call if you need us.”

  With a feeling of dread, Molly went to the study. Standing at the window, she watched the children play in the side yard and wondered what she would say to Brady Wilkins. Should she tell the truth? Try to gain his sympathy? Lie? She was a poor liar. Over the years, to ease a patient’s anxiety she had learned to shade the truth a bit, but she had never outright lied. Until now.

  She had no choice. She needed that money. The children had no one to protect them but her. That justification sounded a lot better than it felt.

  Suddenly the door flew open. Molly whirled.

  He loomed in the doorway, nearly as tall as his brother but leaner. Dressed for travel, he wore a dusty black Stetson, a sheepskin jacket over faded Levi Strauss trousers, and a large revolver in a holster on his right hip. His eyes had all the warmth of a cloudless winter sky and contrasted starkly against his weathered skin and dark stubble. She couldn’t see his mouth beneath the black mustache, but judging by the furrow between his dark brows, she guessed he wasn’t smiling.

  “You must be Henry’s brother,” she said, striving for a friendly tone.

  Those icy blue eyes flicked over her, a purely masculine assessment that hit all the pertinent places but showed little interest. Automatic and uninvolved. She wondered if he was even aware of
doing it.

  Stepping into the room, he slammed the door shut behind him then stood braced in front of it, feet apart, jacket hooked behind big hands planted just above his low-slung belt. “You married my brother.”

  “Yes. I’m Molly McFarlane . . . Wilkins.” She held out her hand, hoping he didn’t notice the slight tremor in her fingers. When he ignored the gesture, she moved to one of the two worn leather chairs in front of the desk and sank down before her knees gave out. Folding her hands tightly in her lap, she put on a smile. “Please sit, Mr. Wilkins. I’m sure you have many questions.”

  He didn’t move. “When?”

  She looked at him, confused by the question.

  “When did you marry him?”

  No use lying about that. There were too many witnesses. “Yesterday.”

  “How convenient.” He said it with a sneer. Spinning, he stomped to the window, then back, then to the window again. His ferocious energy seemed to charge the very air with menace.

  Molly watched his big hands open and close, open and close, and considered bolting from the room but doubted her legs would hold her up. Instead, she sat absolutely still, hands clasped, feet flat on the floor, trying to make herself as unnoticeable as possible.

  Use a calm voice, show concern, not fear. Papa’s words, drilled into her over and over in those terrible months at Andersonville Prison, where violence and despair and rage had been a way of life. And death.

  “You heard he was rich, is that it?” he accused, still pacing. “And now that he’s hurt, you’re just biding your time until he dies so you can get your hands on his money. Jesus, what kind of woman are you?”

  “If.”

  He stopped and scowled at her. “What?”

  “If he dies.” A small, but important distinction . . . at least to her. “And I didn’t realize who he was until an hour ago.”