Her Runaway Heart's Safe Harbor, page 14
“Well—be careful,” she said lamely, pausing with coffeepot in hand as he started toward the back door. “And remember, tomorrow I’ll want to change the dressing on that wound.”
“It ain’t hardly needful, Miss Carter. I can get along just fine with—”
“Me. Or the doctor. Your choice.”
He sighed the long-suffering sigh of a martyr. “Yes, ma’am.” He, too, had paused, with one big capable hand resting on the doorframe. “Miss Carter.”
“Yes, Sheriff?”
“Thank you.”
Her brows arched in inquiry. “For what?”
“For this.” The slight tip of his head indicated her competent treatment of and ministration to his injury. “I appreciate what you’ve done, helpin’ me like this. You’re mighty handy in nursin’ skills.”
Her smile now held warmth and pleasure but also a hint of puzzlement. “I was happy to lend aid, Sheriff. Consider it a very small repayment for providing me a place to stay. You take care of your own, didn’t you say? That seems to be a very reassuring motto to live by.”
“It’s worked so far. Well…”
Still he lingered. Clearly something was on his mind; and, given his behavior during their brief association, she realized he would keep digging until the answer eventually presented itself. “Havin’ a lotta knowledge about herbs and such ain’t the usual trainin’ for most gals, is it?”
He was getting too close to learning the truth, and Almyra was having none of it.
Carefully clearing her throat, she agreed. “Probably not. But I’ve always been interested in the use of natural curatives for recovery and good health. And I was fortunate enough that my… a teacher was available to work with me, and… well. I shall never seek a career in the medical field, but, in small ways, I am able to do what I can for anyone hurt.”
“Uh huh.” For a long moment, there in the silent kitchen, with an owl hooting somewhere in the distance and the lonely whistle of a locomotive either pulling into or out of the station, he stood there, studying her with those clear, almost clairvoyant eyes. Then he lightly slapped the framework, as if in farewell.
“Good enough, then. Thank you once again, Miss Carter, and I wish you a good night.”
Chapter 16
Two weeks of routine life in a small town slipped by, taking the region into mid-May. The Hill Country had officially burst forth with spring blooms and greenery nearly two months ago. Although the season had reached its peak, steady sunshine and a spotty day of rain here and there had peppered the landscape with bluebells, the brilliant orange of Indian blanket, white prickly poppy, and evening primrose etched in delicate pink.
Atmospheric conditions, moving inexorably toward summer, were warm enough during the height of day to slow activity and encourage every elderly porch-sitter to tarry a while. Slow down, take it easy; there’s always later that afternoon to do what needs to be done. Or, better yet, the next day.
Those toiling inside the relatively cool adobe framework of the sheriff’s office were not afforded such luxury. Petty crime did not call a halt due to extremities of weather. Neither heat or drought or dead of night, the three law officers were kept busy enough with minor problems.
A gang of four boys in their early teens had decided it would be great entertainment to leap out of alleys in front of unsuspecting pedestrians, scare them half to death—especially the older, more fragile ones—scoop up any parcels that might have been flung aside in fright, and race away, laughing, to some hideout.
Apprised of complaints by several angry residents over the course of several days, Cooper managed to catch the young hoodlums in the very act. He wasn’t scared half to death, nor had he any parcels to fling. What he did have was a square jaw, broad shoulders, a perfectly fitted gun belt, and an attitude that brooked no leniency.
“Well, gentlemen. Been amusin’ yourselves, have you?”
The boys, startled by the presence of the law where least expected, let out a yell and fled.
But not very far.
At the other end of the alley stood an impassive Harm Kittredge, equally square-jawed and broad-shouldered, with boots planted firmly apart and arms crossed over silver-starred chest.
“Goin’ somewhere, fellers?” the deputy inquired, as they skidded to a stop in the gravelly dust before him.
Trapped.
Unsurprisingly, two or three attempted bravado and bluster. They weren’t botherin’ anybody, and just walkin’ around town and runnin’ into folks was all good fun, and one’s old man would have the sheriff’s hide if his son had any problems, and another’s grandpop had founded this dumb hick place before kickin’ the bucket and his ghost would be mighty upset did the law mess with history.
And so on.
Patiently, Cooper let them attempt to finagle their way out of a dicey situation. Finally, he had had enough.
“Time for the cuffs, Harm. Reckon two pairs are enough, we can shackle ’em together.”
Even then, after howling and squawking like barnyard livestock, one tried to run. He didn’t bargain on the long arm of the law. Cooper reached out, grabbed the boy by his collar, and held on.
Eventually, with their prisoners shackled, the merry little band clumped back to the jail in public disgrace. There, unmanacled, the boys were shoved into a cell and left to stew, bitterly complain, and berate the entire official constabulary force and every adult in Jamboree.
In the main office, separate from the section belonging to those behind bars, Harm plopped down in a chair and got comfortable. “How long you gonna let ’em gripe?” he asked, grinning.
“Till I get tired of listenin’ to the noise. After that, I figure the livery stable has got some horse stalls that need muckin’ out. Should be right up their alley, don’t ya think?”
“Sure. But I reckon we gotta put ’em back on the street eventually.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Don’t know why. Them young hooligans have been causin’ trouble a right smart while, now. Outa school and nothin’ to do. Ain’t nothin’ worse’n youngsters with too much money to spend and too much time on their hands and bored outa their skulls in between. Can’t have that, now, can we?”
A lawman’s day was made up of such misdemeanor events, when no bank robberies were in progress and no gun duels being fought.
There were the usual occasional complaints from oldsters about noise in the streets, which must be dealt with. Someone’s house was broken into, and a collection of bibelots and silver pieces stolen. A ragged, unwashed, tramp came riding into town on one of the railway’s stockyard cars, and made a nuisance of himself until Cooper stepped in to take charge.
He locked the derelict into the empty jail cell next to that occupied by the gang of boys. Amazing how quiet they became after that.
The gang of malcontented boys, having been given no choice but to spend the night behind bars, had been carted off, one by one, in handcuffs, to the supervision of their parents. Shocked parents, of course. Their sons were model citizens; how dare the sheriff accuse them of wrongdoing? He was just trying to make an example of them to the rest of the town.
“Yes, sir, I am at that,” Cooper had agreed without hesitation. “And this is just fair warnin’, sir. Keep them youngsters outa trouble, and occupied, or I will by heaven find occupation for all of ’em. And I can assure you they won’t like a minute of it.”
To Cooper’s intense disappointment—and frustration—no further progress had been made in solving the disappearance of Martin Twining. Both deputies had struck out, per Cooper’s instructions, for a radius of several miles, looking for clues.
No body was found, no telltale sign of blood drops was spied, no trail of broken brush or branches to mark a kidnapping was noted. His clothing and belongings remained, intact, in his room at Mrs. Noonan’s boarding house.
After a while, Rosamund had begged permission of law officials and her parents to retrieve all of Martin’s personal effects to store at the Whorter household. Until the man himself returned. Or—until—something far worse ensued…
The sheriff’s gory head wound gradually healed, helped along by diligent care provided by his house guest; and he was able to remove the bandage and take to wearing his beloved Stetson again, over her vigorous objections. Miss Carter insisted it was far too soon to return to his usual routine, but then who could argue with such an impatient idiot when it came to his own good health?
His tart response was to ask if she’d rather argue with a patient idiot, instead?
That was typical of their conversation during the times they spent together.
She was acerbic; he was irritable. She was arch; he was dismissive. She was overly sensitive, in his opinion; he was overly sensitive, in her opinion.
Meet, match, draw.
Cooper puzzled over this puzzling relationship in the small hours of the night, in his primitive cabin room, when sleep eluded him.
Almyra Carter was the most contradictory woman he had ever known. and he had known plenty. Sweet ones, sour ones, modest ones, generous-to-the-hilt ones, blondes, brunettes, even a redhead or two. He had enjoyed his share of romantic encounters, each lasting only until the thrill of the chase wore off. Then he was out looking for new worlds to conquer.
He would admit himself baffled by this lady who was pledged to wed his best friend. How would poor Tom cope with her when he finally returned to life? This gal was clearly used to forming her own opinions, and she was not slow to give them voice. An independent minx, who had most likely been given her own way far too often by indulgent kinfolk.
Being with her was, for Cooper, like attempting to mix water and oil. It just didn’t work.
And yet. And yet…
He was feeling an undeniable attraction to little Miss Carter. Which left him feeling lower than a snake’s belly. Here was the man, Tom Buchanan, whose family had taken him in as a baby, with whom he had lived as a foster brother, lying still as death in a narrow sickroom cot. Without consciousness, without knowledge, without sentience. And here he was, Cooper Grayson, considering a mild flirtation with that man’s betrothed.
Yup. Lower than a snake’s belly. Lower than that, even, If there was such a thing.
Meanwhile, he could only go along, accepting the challenges of each fresh day. Never sure, when they joined forces, which spark might light the flame that led to combustion.
Cooper’s main concern was finding time for a visit to Tom Buchanan’s cool shady room at the Sisters of Mercy. He and Pepper, hitched up to the buggy, escorted Miss Carter to the facility as often as possible, usually in mid to late afternoon.
Sometimes he was able to stay; sometimes he was forced by duty to leave earlier than planned, while she remained behind to watch over, to read to, to make plans for the invalid.
Shortly after her arrival at the sanatorium, nearly three weeks ago, she had merely observed the routine of everyday care. Soon, however, she had begun to ask questions, not only of Dr. Murray but also the sweetly compliant—and never so sweetly compliant than as when in the presence of the sheriff—Nurse Egan. How often was such and such done?
What sort of pharmacopeia and medical procedures were being used? Was there more exposure to the outdoors than just fresh air and sunshine through the open window?
Dr. Murray had seemed happy to put her mind at ease, providing any and all information requested. Though the program of treatment was sound enough, little progress was being seen. Almyra asked if she might add her own ministration of therapeutic herbal remedies, in the hope of stimulating the healing process.
“What sort of herbal remedies?”
The doctor sounded just a tad suspicious. Almyra probably hadn’t intended to appear patronizing, or even as offering a challenge to the plan of action he had outlined for Tom Buchanan’s care. And, while the value of natural restoratives was not to be sniffed at, many physicians considered their own treatments to be the modern course. No point in harking back to folklore and any old wives’ tales of nostrums and potions.
“So what did you tell him?” inquired Cooper, to whom this incident was being related just today, as the two traveled to the sanitorium.
Almyra began to count off on her fingers, with a description and explanation.
“Sage, for the benefit of brain function. The scent is pungent enough that I have been keeping two small open jars of the spice in Mr. Buchanan’s room, and I have also induced him to swallow sage tea, teaspoon by teaspoon. Then there’s turmeric, for the same purpose, and also helpful when taken as tea. Ginseng root has been proven invaluable as far as preventing memory loss. More tea in the form of lemon balm, also as an aid to reasoning.”
Cooper gave her a sideways glance that held both awe and amusement. “Huh. Gettin’ all that liquid down a feller knocked clean outta his senses must be quite a job. Just how and when and where did you find all these exotic brews, anyway?”
“Um. Well, frankly, I raided your pantry for one or two,” she confessed. “Then, since Rosamund volunteered to take me on a tour of the town, we browsed through the shelves of the Jamboree General Store, and I was able to purchase what I needed.”
“That’s some education you had, Miss Carter. Highly unusual if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.”
“I don’t mind at all. However, if I am able to help anyone with the knowledge I’ve gained, that’s so much for the better, isn’t it?”
“Sounds like fact, for sure.” He considered that, as Pepper clopped along on the hard-packed street, with the site of the Sisters’ tall white building seen in the distance. “Might not wanna spread the word too much, though. Some ignorant folks still see an herb healer as somebody who outta be shunned—or, at the least, stoned at the gates.”
She grimaced, showing her disgust. “Ignorant. Hmmph. No doubt. At any rate, I’m already seeing a very slight improvement in Mr. Buchanan, after a decent interval of absorbing my witch’s brews. I’ll be interested in your opinion as to his condition.”
Skeptical yet hopeful, Cooper followed the lady inside, through the front door, down the hall, and into Tom’s room, feeling much like an awkward schoolboy traipsing after the schoolmarm. She had visited often enough, spent enough time in the confines of the particular area, to have her presence utterly accepted by all on staff.
Which was how she behaved. Calmly. But decisively. She had every right to be there, and the world knew it.
Taking a seat in the rocker, which had been installed as a fixture beside the patient’s bed, she leaned forward to take his thin, pale hand in hers. With no exercise, no exposure to the sun, and little solid food in his system, his whole frame had shrunk to lesser proportions.
“Mr. Buchanan,” she said softly. “I am here again to pester you. How are you feeling today? Are you ready to come back to us? And look, I’ve brought the sheriff, and he is expecting you to wake and greet us properly.”
That was the sheriff’s clue, and he stepped forward. “Howdy, Tom. Listen, we got urgent business to take care of, and we need you with us right pronto. Who d’ you think is runnin’ the ranch, my friend? What kinda job is bein’ done out to the Pinetree? Stop lollygagging around and get to work.”
At Almyra’s warning frown, he shrugged.
“Well, it seems all the nice soothin’ words in the world ain’t doin’ a thing. Time to be tough and let him know what’s what.”
“You needn’t be a bully about it. Does he, Mr. Buchanan?”
“That’s exactly what he needs. So, move your stumps, brother. If nothin’ else, you got a weddin’ to arrange, and we’re due for the biggest fandango affair this town has ever seen.”
