Dark Trail Rising: Four Tales of the Old West Page 12

  She smiled as she finished the wrapping, then rubbed the collie’s head. “You will be his shining example, sweet boy,” she teased, leaning down to accept a weak lick of thanks from the dog before he rested his head between his front paws.

  As Val stood, she rubbed the ache in her back, then crossed the small kitchen to wash her hands in the basin before checking on the bubbling soup.

  Her thoughts turned to what must be done next. She had enough poultice made for dog and man for at least tomorrow…after that, depending on the way their wounds looked, she’d be able to decide on further treatment.

  She laid the soup spoon down and stood one last, lingering moment by the stove, letting the heat seep into the bones of her fingers and hands.

  She’d love nothing more than to go stand by the fire in the front room a few moments, but the stranger needed attention before she did anything else.

  He had the look of a man on the run…and the wound he carried added credence to those thoughts. Yet, he had been concerned for his horse, for the dog…and for her. She couldn’t forget the apology in his voice earlier. He’d wanted to help her with Coffee, but could barely manage to stay in the saddle as long as he had. From the looks of him, he’d been on the dodge for a while now.

  She sighed and turned away from the stove, heading for the bedroom. She stopped at the kitchen table to pick up the things she needed…poultice, bandaging, just-washed scissors…and tweezers. And, of course, the battered medical bag that had belonged to her father, Dr. Henri Reneau.

  An ache of longing washed over her, so unexpected and strong she gasped at the intensity of it. Mon Dieu, how she missed him, and dear Maman, though her memories of her mother were not as clear as they once were—and that made her sad. But she had been so very young when Maman had passed—only six. Papa had been determined to create the family he and Maman had envisioned, with several children, a beautiful home, and a thriving medical practice. He had been a dreamer—not able to understand why others couldn’t accept his octoroon wife. It seemed to come as a shock to him with each cut, each snub…until he was beaten down.

  Juliana Reneau had borne it better than her husband. She had lived with it her entire life. Almost white enough to “pass” but not quite—she hoped for better things for her children, Valentine and Pierre. But Pierre had died when he was an infant, despite their father’s most valiant efforts to save him from the fever that had struck them all.

  Valentine had been three when her little brother died, and three years later, another brother—along with their mother—passed away as well, during childbirth.

  Papa had not known how to go on. He might as well have died along with Juliana and the baby. He’d tried to carry on, but had begun to drink heavily—so heavily, in fact, that his hand had become unsteady for surgeries, and he’d almost killed a young man with appendicitis.

  After that, he’d all but stopped practicing medicine. Instead, he’d insisted on passing his knowledge on to her, a slip of a girl not much more than a child herself—but a young woman with unmatched determination and an aptitude for medicine.

  Papa had died when Valentine was sixteen. He’d lingered ten years longer than he’d wanted to, for her sake, she knew.

  When he’d died, Valentine had had to survive. She knew a bit about that, she thought, as she shouldered the blanket aside and entered the bedroom. From what she’d seen of this stranger, he knew about surviving, too.

  ****

  Levi was awake. He’d slept in fits and starts, and the pain in his thigh was becoming nearly unbearable. She’d be coming back soon, he’d been telling himself—and here she was.

  She wore men’s breeches, and an oversized flannel shirt that fit her more like a blanket.

  He forced his eyes open even wider as she began setting the things she carried on the night table.

  She leaned across him, worry written plainly on her features as she laid a cool hand on his forehead. “Mmm…” Her lips tightened.

  “Fever?”

  “Yes, and it’s high.”

  He smiled. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t hear the worry in her tone to match what he saw in her eyes. It’d been a long, long time since anyone worried over him…

  She pulled the covers away so she could see his leg. Without saying anything more, she took the lantern from the nightstand and turned up the wick, holding it close to the wound.

  “I better get to this,” she said under her breath. Then, she glanced up to meet his gaze. “How long have you been carrying this bullet? And what are you running from?”

  Levi grimaced as she turned her attention back to the wound and prodded at it.

  “Three days. And I ain’t runnin’, ma’am. A Connor don’t run.”

  “And you are a Connor, I take it?”

  “Levi Connor. Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier,” he muttered, letting go a sharp breath as she laid a warm, wet cloth over the wound.

  “Need to get it cleaned up,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but it can’t be helped. Taking out a bullet is always painful, but when it’s been in there for three days—”

  “I know.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m just obliged to you—and I’ll make it up to you—for bein’ such a bother.”

  She shook her head. “No bother. Truly. My father was a doctor, so I do know a little about what I’m doing.”

  Levi breathed a slow sigh of relief. This wasn’t his first bullet hole. But thank God, he’d ended up here, with a beautiful young woman who seemed capable of treating him. There had been times before when he would have prayed to be in this circumstance, rather than some of the ones he’d found himself in.

  Gentle hands ministered to him, but he suddenly remembered the very delicate location of the bullet hole and tried to re-cover himself.

  “Mr. Connor, I’ve seen everything you have—and many others just like it,” Valentine said matter-of-factly. “I can’t very well remove a bullet from a wound I can’t see.” She snatched the covers from his hand and threw them back to his side. “You’re making it harder for me to be able to do what I need to.”

  “In a week or two, I’d pay money for you to flip those covers away like that,” Levi answered.

  She bent a long, hard look on him. “I’m not for sale, Mr. Connor. Not at any price. You want to keep riding?”

  Levi shook his head. “Forget I said that, Valentine. Just the pain and the…damn humiliation talkin’. I didn’t mean it.”

  A slow smile quirked her lips. “I can’t imagine you ever being embarrassed.”

  “Believe it or not, I was raised a gentleman, ma’am.”

  “I believe it, Mr. Connor. I do believe it.” Her voice was soft and sincere, and full of loss for things Levi didn’t understand.

  But just then, she pulled the wound open and probed for the bullet, and the pain stripped everything else away from him. There was nothing in Levi’s consciousness but Valentine and her tweezers, delving into the bloody hole in his leg. He swallowed back the cry that threatened to bring the roof down, forcing it away.

  And then, the pain eased as Valentine expertly fished the lead out and dropped it onto the rag she’d placed on the bed.

  Levi’s breath came in rapid, panting gasps of air as he fought to control the agony, battling it as he felt her give him a few moments’ respite. She wiped his brow and smoothed back his sweat-damp hair before she whispered, “I have to sterilize it now.”

  He nodded his understanding, unable to speak, just yet. The trickle of liquid on his skin was followed by the smell of alcohol filling the room, and pain engulfed him once more. He tried to think of the woman. Valentine, she’d said her name was…beautiful…Valentine.

  He felt her gently bandaging the wound with a skilled touch—but he was too far gone with fatigue, hunger, and the damned pain to remain conscious. The only thing that mattered right now was her kindness.

  She spoke softly to him as she worked, in a mixture of French and Engl
ish. He understood little of what she said—in either language. No telling what secrets she was telling him, in his state. At that, he smiled.

  “You have me puzzled, Mr. Connor…what is it you find to smile about right now?”

  He opened his eyes and found her looking at him as she pulled the covers up across his bare skin.

  “Just…fanciful thoughts, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Valentine. I’ll call you Levi—if that’s all right.”

  “I’d…like that. I appreciate what you’re doin’ for me. I know there’s many who wouldn’t have been so charitable…and I know you’re takin’ a chance on me—bein’ a stranger. I want you to know—I’d never hurt you, ma’am.”

  “Yes, I know,” she murmured, “or you would be continuing on your way out in that snowstorm. Now, rest. Here—” She pressed a cup of water to his parched lips.

  Nothing had ever tasted so good. It slid down his dry throat, soothing and refreshing.

  “Not too fast,” she said, pulling back a little on the cup.

  He made a sound of acquiescence, finishing what was left. “Thank you…Valentine.”

  She touched his forehead once more, and her hand lingered for an instant longer than might be considered proper by some. But he welcomed the gentle touch. It had been a lifetime ago since the caring hand of a beautiful woman had fallen across his skin…

  Then, the contact was gone, and he felt the loss of the comfort keenly.

  Something wonderful was cooking, the smell wafting in from the kitchen. In spite of everything, his stomach rumbled.

  “That’s a good sign!” Valentine exclaimed before he could say anything. “The soup’s on—should be ready in a few minutes.”

  Levi shifted on the bed. “How’s…the pup?”

  She sighed. “Someone shot him. I don’t understand who would do that.”

  “You’ve made…an enemy.”

  “Yes,” was her soft reply. “But who?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Levi couldn’t forget the troubled look on Valentine’s features as she rose and left him to check on the soup.

  Who, indeed? Levi figured it was the least he could do after Valentine’s care to help her unravel the mystery. Anyone who’d shoot a dog needed to be shot themselves, to his way of thinking. And Valentine was not safe.

  But what kind of enemy could someone like her have? He knew nothing about her—or what secrets she may be keeping. But he wanted to learn. Her odd beauty was fascinating, but the genuine kindness she showed him was an even greater attraction.

  Fool…she’s doing just fine without you interfering. And for all you know—she’s attached. Just because there had been no sign of a man in her life so far didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

  Levi gave a low sigh.

  No matter what, he owed her—and the only way he could repay even a part of what she’d done for him was to help find out who threatened her safety.

  From the kitchen, he could hear her humming to herself as she cooked.

  It was a low, comforting sound that soothed and lulled him into the past…into a world where there’d been no pain…just a young boy growing up poor, but happy. He’d had food in his belly and clothes on his back, and so many dreams in his head he’d scarce known which one to chase.

  Then, the war had come along and destroyed everything. He’d been caught up in the frenzy—though the fight hadn’t really been his. Levi and his brother Jack and sister Emily lived with their parents on a small farm. They owned no slaves, but managed to eke out a living on their land as their ancestors had before them.

  But Levi had no plans to continue that kind of existence. Farming wasn’t for him. And he hadn’t really cared enough about the land to fight for it.

  What he had cared about was his younger sister…Emily, who’d followed him everywhere, looking at him with her adoring eyes.

  Until the Yankee soldiers had come.

  Emily had been so young—a child, really. But they hadn’t cared.

  The soldiers had killed Ma and Pa. Then they’d done the unspeakable. Thankfully, Levi had been knocked senseless at the time. When he’d come to, they’d gone, leaving death and destruction behind them.

  Levi and Jack had buried Ma and Pa. Emily was barely alive. She’d not said a word since that day. By tacit agreement, Levi and Jack had taken her to a nearby convent where she’d been accepted by the nuns without question.

  That had been fifteen years ago…he’d been barely fourteen, Emily only twelve. And Jack…at sixteen, he’d felt the killing fire inside him and gone to do something about it. He’d joined what was left of the Confederacy. And Levi had never heard from him again.

  Levi, too, had fallen in with the remnants of a rag-tag Confederate company in the twilight of the war, but not because he felt any burning need to fight for the South.

  He’d needed to belong somewhere, since he no longer had a family.

  For at least a year, he’d been numb with shock and grief. His disappointment in himself and his inability to have done something to save his family ate at him. Helplessness wasn’t something he was accustomed to. Over and over, he saw the soldiers’ rough hands on his sister, heard their laughter, and then—something had hit him, hard—and there had been nothing but blackness until hours later, when it was too damn late to do anything for Ma or Pa…or Emily.

  The war had ended shortly afterward, and he’d gone his own way when he was barely fifteen. He’d made the journey to the convent to visit his sister. She’d looked at him with lovely, dark eyes, devoid of feeling or emotion. And he’d left as quickly as he could.

  From time to time, he’d drifted back along those lonely hidden trails, finding himself at the convent gates, hoping for good news…but Emily had never come to herself. If Jack ever visited, Levi didn’t know. He never ran into him there, and for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to ask the nuns about his brother. The sisters never volunteered any information.

  His visits had gotten further and further apart. He knew the nuns disapproved—but hell, there was nothing he could do for Emily. Sometimes, he wondered if his visits were a cruel reminder of what had happened to her all those years ago. Maybe she’d be better off if he stopped coming altogether.

  Levi became a wanderer—a man with no clear purpose, who sold his gun and never knew where he’d bed down from one night to the next.

  But he’d never been able to leave his conscience or his good southern upbringing behind. And that set him apart from many of those he occasionally rode with.

  He didn’t regret it—he just wished he could find where he belonged in this world and settle down to it. Though he’d been restless during his growing-up years, he’d always known he had a place there on the little farm in Georgia where he’d grown up. Now, even that was gone. Probably long since confiscated for back taxes owed on it—taxes he and Jack had had no way to pay, even if they hadn’t both flown the coop and gone their separate ways.

  Valentine’s low humming in the other room brought a peace to Levi’s soul that he hadn’t known for a long time. Just being safe, under a real roof, with a bowl of soup on its way to him steadied him mightily in a way nothing else could have. Why?

  The men who’d put the bullet in his thigh lay dead about a hundred miles east. He’d ridden straight toward the heart of Indian Territory, secure in the knowledge he still kept his winnings from the faro tables they’d been after ever since he’d left Fort Smith. And as far as he knew, that was the end of anyone looking for him to try and finish him off.

  Still…Valentine had an enemy or two of her own. His heart twisted as he remembered the pleading look in her odd-colored amber eyes, and the trusting weight of the half-grown pup lying across him as he’d done his best to stay on Cali’s back for the short distance they’d traveled.

  Soft footsteps followed the path from the kitchen through the front room and into the hallway. Valentine entered the bedroom carrying a plate with a bowl of soup balanced on it, along w
ith a couple of slices of bread.

  She concentrated on not spilling the soup, walking carefully to her battered old dresser and setting everything down.

  “That smells wonderful,” Levi said.

  “Well, I hope it’s good. Times are tough right now—especially in the winter. In the summer, when everything’s fresh and plentiful—that’s when the soup is truly wonderful.”

  She came closer to the bed, laying a hand on Levi’s forehead. “Fever’s down a little, but it always comes up at night. Let’s get some soup and bread into you and maybe you’ll be able to fight it off better when it does rise.”

  She pulled the night table out from the wall, close to the side of the bed. Hesitantly, she said, “I—don’t know if you can manage to feed yourself—if not, I’ll be glad to—”

  Levi waved her off. “I’ll do it,” he said grimly. “Ain’t never had a anyone feed me since I was a baby, and I don’t intend to start now, Miss Valentine.”

  “Oh…just Valentine. No ‘miss’ to it.”

  Levi reached for the spoon as she set the soup on the night stand. He leaned over the bowl and took a bite. “Valentine, do you have—a man? Husband?”

  She shook her head, but her eyes were wary. “I don’t need one. They’re too much trouble.”

  Levi laughed. “May be, but they’re also good protectors.”

  “And you think I need protecting?” She crossed her arms, eyeing him.

  “Didn’t say that—exactly.”

  “I bet I’m a better shot than you are, Levi Connor.”

  He wiped his mouth and bit off a piece of bread. “Could be. Still, you’re a woman. An’ it looks like you’re all alone here. Now, you got someone shootin’ your dog. You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

  Valentine’s gaze held his briefly before she glanced away. “There’s a man. A man from my past—he’s looking for me.”