Caleb's Rain Lily Bride (Texas Frontier Brides Book 1) Page 3

  She pulled the plank door open and stepped inside. Her eyes blinked at the sudden darkness. Closing them, she breathed in the stale odor of loneliness possessed by all houses left with no one to give life to the interior.

  No human had been there recently to warm it with their everyday activities. Cooking, cleaning, the smell of bread baking in the oven, a chicken roasting over the open hearth. No singing or quiet morning conversations. No one going in or out the door to do the chores. The cabin held only silence. Remembrances were all well and good, but the home was empty without love to sustain it.

  Slivers of light shone behind the curtains covering the two glass windows. Her boots echoed on the pine floor as she walked the short distance to open them. Pulling them apart, she paused and studied the yellow calico print, fingering the smooth cotton. Ian had picked the pattern. He said it would make the place look cheery and happy. She swallowed back the lump that threatened to form. He had been right. For a while.

  Turning, she stared at the particles of dust dancing in the air. The table sported a fine layer of silt, and the empty frame of the old rope bed in the corner was decorated in wispy cobwebs. The old trunk stored beneath was dusty, as well.

  Maggie sighed and plopped her hat on the rough plank table. Ian’s hat. She blinked and allowed herself to smile. How many times had she snatched it from that very resting place and scolded him for setting it there? She fought back the sudden threat of tears. Maybe the hat belonged on that table.

  Grabbing a bucket from the counter, she headed out to the well. The place could use a good scrubbing and it was a perfect day to do it. And when she was finished, she’d have a nice sit on the porch with a hot cup of coffee and the biscuits Gram had insisted she bring.

  Chapter 3

  Drinking the last drop of the bitter brew, Maggie stood from the rocker and started inside the cabin. A sound from beyond the yard caught her ear and she spotted a large brown horse sauntering from the hill behind the house. He was saddled, but had no rider. A rope hung from the halter he wore.

  A twinge of fear ran through her and she eased inside to the table, shoving the revolver between her belt and trousers as a makeshift holster. She picked up the rifle and checked to make sure it was loaded. Anyone wandering around the place was bound to be looking for that horse. And they could be at her door any moment.

  Taking a few deep breaths to calm her heart, Maggie stood just inside the cabin for a while and listened to the sounds around her. Birds sang in the thicket next to the house, a few crows screeched and called to each other as they hopped among the oaks. Off to the east, a roll of thunder boomed. Too bad it wasn’t from the west. They could use a shower.

  The horse neighed at the boom in the distance and turned his eyes to her as she came through the door. She stepped off the porch and grabbed the rope hanging from his bridle.

  The fiber was dry and rough. It hadn’t been cut, but ripped. That much was obvious. Had the horse been frightened and pulled it apart while making an escape? It looked to be an old piece of twine, and age tended to make the fibers weak.

  “Too bad you can’t talk, boy,” she said patting his nose. She let go of the rope and scanned the surroundings. The horse had walked in from the east. That would be the place to look for his owner. She whistled for Ace, who came at once.

  The brown horse followed as she urged Ace toward the wooded area about a quarter mile behind the cabin. The stranger horse seemed content to trail along behind them, like a bored hound dog without a coon to chase.

  Maggie slowed Ace as they approached the woods. She dismounted and dropped the reins. He was good to stay close and if she needed him in a hurry, he would be free to come. The other stallion seemed content to stay with her horse.

  Pulling the rifle from its holder, she stepped into the cool shade of the trees. Just inside the darkness, she paused and listened. Ian had taught her how to recognize the sounds of the forest, listen to natures hints as to what was going on around her. Continuing on for a few more moments, she stopped again. Everything sounded like an ordinary day in the woods.

  Nervous perspiration poured down her shirt. She fanned her face and wiped it with the bandana tied around her neck. Really, Maggie, get a hold on yourself. There was a slight ridge in front of her. Maybe that would be a good place to check. She could stay out of site as she approached the top, in case anyone was on the other side. If she searched over to her right, there would be a trail. She could follow it for a time. Pushing into a swath of scrubby bushes, she headed for her destination.

  “This was a bad idea,” she muttered to herself, swiping at the thin branches as they struck her face. Glad to be through them, she stepped around the last bush. Her toe caught on something and the rifle fell from her hand as she sprawled to the ground, her face striking a mass of dried branches.

  She closed her eyes and lay there for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She let the pain soak in. No doubt she would be covered in bruises tomorrow. Her cheeks stung from scratches, and her palms hurt from the small pebbles and sticks that stuck into her hands when she landed. She took a breath and rolled over, her ankles still supported by the fallen tree.

  When would she ever learn to watch each step? There were always rotting logs on the forest floor. She had to be more observant. “Of all the clumsy. . .” she half sat and stared. There was no log.

  What she saw was a pair of legs, swathed in dark trousers and wearing a very nice pair of leather boots that sported silver spurs. Forgetting the aches from the fall, she jerked her feet forward and hugged her knees to her chest for a brief moment, breathing slow to calm her nerves. Not trusting herself to stand, she crawled toward the body on the ground.

  The legs were attached to a cowboy, a six-shooter in his holster. He was wearing a blue chambray shirt, covered in wet blood on the left side. His hair was dark and needed some scissors taken to it. Long, muscular arms splayed to the sides of his body. The skin beneath the dark bristles on his unshaven face was blanched white as a rabbit‘s tail. He was dead, from the looks of him. No doubt, she had found the owner of the brown horse.

  Her heart beat in her throat as she pushed herself to her feet and drew nearer to him. Looking closely, she could see a slight rise and fall of his chest. “He’s still alive!” The amazement in her voice echoed in the emptiness around her. She pulled the revolver from her belt and quickly checked the area around her, regretting her sudden announcement. What if the shooter was still nearby? She held her breath, listening. But all seemed quiet and calm. The birds continued their chatter and a hawk whistled high in the sky above.

  Kneeling beside him, her hands shook as she removed the dark felt hat from his head. His face had bits of blood spattered across his cheek, probably from the large cut above his left eye. Blood still oozed from the long gash. She glanced and spotted a broken branch of a small cedar. His head must have struck the sharp point when he fell.

  She stared at his face. He was a handsome fellow, with high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. When he smiled he would be nice to look at, she thought. Shaking the thought from her head, she gingerly touched his forehead. No fever. He must not have been here long.

  A slight, but steady stream of blood flowed from his side. She unbuttoned the cotton shirt and examined the wound. Probably from a rifle, she guessed. Pulling the kerchief from around her neck, she mopped the wound the best she could. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, compared to the red pool on the ground beside him.

  His eyelids flipped open at her touch. Her breath caught as blue-grey eyes, the color of the sky on a stormy afternoon, held hers. She swallowed hard and blinked. “Can you hear me?”

  He narrowed his eyes, as if he was trying to comprehend her question. “Amanda? Wha’ happened?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “You’ve been shot, sir. Do you think you can stand?”

  I have to get him out of here, Lord. Please don’t let him die on me right here. Praying came second nature when things were de
sperate. It was what Gram warned her about–only trusting God when it seemed she couldn’t handle a situation by herself. She was guilty of it more than she liked to believe. Still, she needed His help. If not for herself, then for this injured man.

  “I…think so,” he whispered.

  Still pressing the wound, she whistled for Ace.

  Chapter 4

  She grit her teeth as she half pushed, half shoved him up beside the horse. There didn’t look to be an ounce of fat on his body. He was all muscle, and heavy as a wagon load of rocks. After the astonishing feat of getting him on the saddle, Maggie pulled herself up behind him and reached around his waist for the reins. “Let’s take it slow, boy,” she said, patting her boots against Ace’s flank.

  “Not too slow, though,” the stranger slurred and slumped forward.

  Maggie held him tighter to her and urged the horse to keep going. Balancing his weight all the way to the cabin was going to be a challenge. There was no hope to get him to town in this condition. She would have to do the best she could.

  As her eyes focused on the cabin ahead, he jerked in the saddle and sat up straighter. “It’s alright, mister. We’re almost there. I’ll do my best to get this bullet out of you.”

  “Amanda?” His voice was scratchy and hard to understand. “Is that you, Amanda?”

  Maggie debated on the answer. Would it calm him if she was this Amanda he kept speaking to? But best not to lie.

  “No. My name is Maggie. Just rest, we’ll be there in a minute. Just hold tight to the saddle horn.”

  He nodded and followed her instructions. “I need to set up camp, soon. I’m pretty tired.”

  “We’re almost there. You’ll be fine,” she encouraged. Would he? Or was he going to bleed to death before they got there? The arm of her shirt was already soaked with red liquid. Getting him up must have reopened the wound.

  ***

  His eyes were glassy but he obeyed her every order. “Now step up. That’s right.” His foot barely topped the log step.

  Maggie breathed a sigh of relief, glad that was the only step up they would have to take.

  Inside the cabin she was grateful she had scrubbed the dust away. “We’re going over to the table. And I’m going to need you to lay down while I clean out your wound. Easy now.”

  Maggie rolled a clean cloth and put under his neck for support. “Now you don’t move while I go get some water,” she told him. Probably unnecessary, as his eyes were closed and he made no response.

  He had passed out again. She contemplated what she had to do next. There was just no way to get the shirt off, other than to cut it. Not that it mattered. She would never be able to mend the rip from the bullet properly, and the blood would be hard to get out. After rekindling the fire in the stove and refilling the coffee pot with water, she pulled the trunk from under the bed and opened the top. Scissors were in a side pouch and she removed them, along with a packet of sewing needles and a spool of white thread. Digging further down, she found several of Ian’s shirts, clean and white. They would have to be torn for bandages, saving one that she would somehow get on the stranger, once he woke.

  Pouring the warm water into a bowl, she took it to the table and began to clean the wound. She pushed him onto his side and examined his back. It was just as she had hoped; an exit wound. “Good,” she breathed.

  There would be no digging for lead in this cowboy. She had done it too many times before. Being make-shift sheriff and doctor for the town was a burden she resented, at times. Someday, if Chance grew, they would have a real doctor and a genuine lawman to keep order.

  The blood from his side was easing again and she cleaned the area across his stomach, her fingers stopping as she felt a rather large scar up higher from his current wound. It was well healed, but left a definite impression in his skin. Sometime in the past, another bullet had entered this man. The indentation was high above the gut. The only reason he had lived, she guessed.

  She tore a clean rag and began to wash the crusted blood from his pasty face. The cut on his forehead was long and puffy, beginning to congeal. She pressed lightly around the jagged edges. No need to get it bleeding again. His eyes were still closed and his breathing almost shallow. Surely he hadn’t lost too much blood to recover. She had seen so much more from a wound than what he had spilled. But there was still the question of how much had soaked into the ground before she found him.

  Finished with that task, she walked to the cupboard and took out the bottle of whiskey she kept stored for emergencies. Pulling out the cork, she hesitated, almost tempted to take a swig herself at the thought of what she was about to do. If he was anywhere near being conscious, she was about to find out.

  Standing beside the table, she took a deep breath and tipped the bottle, allowing the amber liquid to splash down the man’s side and into his open wound.

  A strangled yell sounded from his mouth as he sat upright on the table. His hand grabbed her arm and he pulled her toward him.

  “What are you…do–” the last word was cut short, as he began to fall backwards.

  Maggie lunged even closer and barely managed to get her hand behind his head before it crashed onto the pine table. At least that part was over.

  After changing into one herself, Maggie began to tear more of Ian’s shirts, refusing to think of where the fabric was coming from. What did it matter? Ian would never wear them again. And she had others.

  Chapter 5

  Caleb opened his eyes. Something was wrong with his vision. He raised his hand to the left side of his face. A cloth seemed to be wrapped over his head. He attempted to move. A gasp erupted from his lips as a sharp pain ran through his side. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he moved his hand and felt the hard surface supporting him. Boards. He must be on a floor, or possibly a table. It was hard to tell from the dim light in the room. The log walls told him he was in a cabin. But where? What had happened?

  Footsteps echoed in the room and a woman, wearing a white shirt, appeared above him. She leaned over and stared into his face. Her blond hair was pulled back and large dark eyes showed concern. Curling tresses framed a pleasant face. Her voice was kind when she spoke.

  “So you’re awake again. I thought you might be out all night,” she said, in a soft southern accent.

  A voice unfamiliar to him. “Do I know you?” His voice was raspy and dry.

  She shook her head and checked the bandage on his brow. “I don’t believe so. I found you out back, shot and unconscious. Do you remember anything?”

  Caleb concentrated, searching for a memory. What was the last thing he remembered? Hunting for a rabbit. He had picketed Kit and walked into the wooded section he had come upon.

  “I…I’m not sure. I was hunting, and then, I heard something. . .” he swallowed, “that’s all I remember.”

  “Ambushed,” she nodded. “Not so uncommon around here as you might think. A lot of outlaws…bad men pass through here.”

  The hesitancy in her voice indicated to him that maybe she thought he was one of those bad men. “Did you take the bullet out?” he asked through clenched teeth. The pain was beginning to sear into his thought process. He’d been shot before, but he didn’t remember it hurting quite this bad. Of course, back then he’d had a doctor, a surgeon looking after him. Not some backwoods southern girl dressed like a cowboy.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t have to. It went clear through you. I washed it with some whiskey and wrapped it for you.”

  She walked across the room and dipped a cup in a bucket and brought it to him. “Let me help you sit up a little. I know it hurts, but you can drink better that way. Else I’ll have to feed it to you with a spoon,” she smiled.

  He drank hungrily, enjoying the cool, wet sensation in his throat. If she offered him a river, he could probably swallow it.

  “I think that’s enough, right now, mister.” Her hands were gentle and cool on his neck as she helped him lie back. “If you drink too much at once, you’re
liable to get sick.”

  She pulled a quilt up over him and smoothed it across his chest. “Now, you sleep for a bit longer, and then we’ll see if you can get on your horse and I’ll take you into town.”

  He nodded and closed his eyes. Whoever this woman was, she was the closest thing to an angel he had met.

  ***

  Maggie studied the sleeping man. She hadn’t asked his name, but the sound of his voice told her he was a Yankee. An accent that grated on her soul. She had lost too much to harbor forgiveness in her heart for northerners.

  Pushing his hair from his forehead, she pondered the possibilities of who he was. Was it possible a law man had shot him some miles back, instead of a lawless straggler out back in her own woods? What if he was a dangerous man on the run from the Texas Rangers? Too many outlaws thought the enormity of Texas was a safe haven.

  She had no way of knowing for sure. But for now, he wouldn’t be much danger. And she had his pistol. And he was in no condition to use it.

  She turned away and picked up the holster she had hung on the lone chair in the room. The leather was older, but well cared for. The revolver was much newer than the holster. A Colt Peacemaker .45. She glanced at him. Was he in the army? She held it in front of her, aiming out the door. A nice gun. As long as it was used for the right reasons. Staring at the revolver in her hand, it occurred to her that a man like him would have had a rifle, too. But there hadn’t been one near him when she found him. She had caught herself searching the area before helping him onto Ace’s saddle. Maybe she should check again. Or maybe the shooter had taken it from him.