Her head ached and pounded like a drum in a parade she’d seen once in Texas. Rachel did her best to ignore it, but the headache refused to go away and kept growing worse as the day continued. She couldn’t remember ever being this weary, not even in the travels from Virginia to Mississippi to Texas and then to Laredo. More than a week of nursing, to Boone seemed much longer. She’d stayed at his side most of the time and worried over him every minute. Although she’d feared for his life, it had taken a deeper resolve than she’d known she possessed to dig the bullet out of his chest and nurse him.
Sleeping in the rocker proved to be an improvement from sleeping in a straight chair, but it was far from comfortable. She’d awakened with a slight headache after a brief rest. He’d been so distraught after learning his family had been notified he was certain to die that she feared he’d relapse. When she did awake, he’d been in good spirits, but she hadn’t felt well at all.
Ezekiel remained gone after removing the dishes from their midday dinner, and Boone dozed in the rocking chair. Rachel tried to sew, but it made her headache worse, so she put the task aside. She rubbed her forehead as if that would relieve the pain and moaned a little. Boone heard, though, and startled her.
He’d walked from the rocker to where she sat and put his big, work-calloused hand on her shoulder. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice heavy with concern. “Are you sick?”
His kindness made her want to cry. She had always been the caregiver and alone for so long that it never occurred that someone else might worry or care.
“I have a headache,” she told him. “It’ll pass.”
Boone refused to accept it. Instead, he threatened to pick her up and carry her to bed if she didn’t go. That horrified her – because he might open his wound or otherwise hurt himself – but it also thrilled her. Rachel allowed him to lead her to the bed and crawled into it.
She settled onto her right side, and he pulled the covers over her, then sat on the edge of the bed.
“Sleep, honey,” he said. “Get some rest.”
Rachel couldn’t relax. Her body remained as tight as an overwound clock.
He stroked her head and hair with one large but gentle hand. The repetitive movement calmed her.
“That feels nice,” she said. “Granny used to do that.”
“So did my ma,” he replied.
“Boone, will you sing to me?”
He chuckled, something she hadn’t heard him do before. “It’s been said I have a good voice, though I haven’t sung much in years, but I’ll try. Mostly, I sing to the cattle at night.”
“Sing to cows?”
“On the trail, sugar. Keeps them from gettin’ too restless at night – all cowboys do.”
Boone began to sing, his voice a rich baritone, a familiar song Rachel had heard often during the war. Some called it “Weeping, Sad and Lonely,” others “When This Cruel War Is Over.” Either way, the poignant lyrics hit home, and tears filled her eyes.
When one slid down her cheek, Boone wiped it away and stopped.
“You don’t like my singing?”
“You’re a fine singer,” she told him. “But it’s such a sad song. I don’t want to be parted from you, Boone.”
“You won’t be.” He sounded certain. “I was wounded, lonely, dying when I met you. It seemed fitting, but I’ll sing another if you’d like.”
“I would.”
He sang a funny little song she’d never heard, something about roving down to Newry town that had an Irish lilt to the words. Then he sang a rollicking ballad about a highwayman named Willie Brennan. Rachel liked them both. The sound of his voice soothed her, and she closed her eyes. Boone switched to a Stephen Foster song, I Dream of Jeannie With The Light Brown Hair, except he changed it to Rachel. Then he sang some more Irish tunes, some of which were familiar to her and some were not.
As he sang, he continued to stroke her hair with an easy hand. She became drowsy but tried to listen. At some point, Ezekiel returned.
“Is she sick?” she heard him ask.
“No, she’s just tired and had a headache,” Boone replied, that tenderness still in his tone.
“Were you singing?” his brother asked.
“Yeah.”
“You were singing some of Ma’s songs.”
“I was.”
“Makes me kinda homesick, Boone.”
“It does me too. But we’ll be there when we can.”
“What about Rachel?”
“I won’t leave her.”
“Then….”
“I mean to marry her when I’m well enough if she’ll have me.”
That sentence pleased her, and she tucked it into her memory. That was the last she remembered, except for their voices soft and low, talking for a long time.
Rachel slept, and when she woke, it was dark in the room except for a single grease lamp that burned on the table. Disoriented for a moment, she roused to find Boone asleep in the rocker. He had pulled it beside the bed, and one of his hands rested on hers. From the opposite side of the room, she heard Zeke snoring. Her headache was gone, but she didn’t try to rise yet. Instead, she savored the luxury of a bed, covers, a pillow beneath her head, and someone to hold her hand tight.
She dozed again and woke when she heard Ezekiel fussing at his brother.
“You’re cold, Boone, I can see you shivering. You don’t need to get down sick.”
“I’m all right.”
“No, you ain’t. It’s not even midnight, and it’s likely to get colder still in here.”
“I’ll do.”
It sounded like bravado to her, so she roused. “Boone?”
“Right here.”
“Get in this bed and warm up.” She had no hesitation. They’d already shared a bed for one night, and she trusted him.
“Honey, are you sure?”
Zeke interrupted. “You just heard her say to get in bed. Do you need help?”
“No.” It turned out Boone did, a bit.
He crawled in the opposite side of the bed after she threw back the bedclothes and curled against her. With him spooned against her back, she felt how chilled he was.
Ezekiel pulled the covers over them both.
“You’re like ice,” she exclaimed.
“I might be a bit cold.”
Although it was a challenge in the narrow bed, Rachel turned over so that she faced Boone. She put her arms around him and cuddled close, her head pillowed against his right shoulder. She used care not to get near his wound. He put his arms around her, too, and they slept the rest of the night, together.
Rachel woke early and, for a moment, couldn’t recall why she lay in Boone’s arms. When she did, she touched his face and found it warm, not feverish. In sleep, he appeared younger than he did awake. She traced the curve of his cheek with one finger, then let it travel down his nose. Rachel outlined his lips with a fingertip and stroked his chin. When he woke, his grey eyes met hers. He looked at her for some long moments, and she gazed back. As natural as breathing, he kissed her, his mouth soft and sweet against her mouth. Her lips melted beneath his, and she shivered, but not from cold. He kept kissing her until she realized that if they didn’t stop, improper things might well happen, so she scooted back enough to end it.
“How’s your head?” he whispered.
“The headache’s gone, but now I’m hungry. Are you warm enough now?”
He nodded. “And I’m starving.”
“It’s early – the saloon won’t be open for hours. I’ll go down and fix us something.”
“Let Ezekiel go with you. He can help you tote the food up here.”
Venturing into the saloon always made Rachel feel like a trespasser. It wasn’t her kind of place, and she knew it. Even closed, the place reeked of stale beer and spilled whiskey. The pungent scent of the patchouli and other fragrances that the gals wore hung in the air, too. The kitchen, however, was different, and she was comfortable there. Ezekiel sat down backwards on a chair while she collected the ingredients to make biscuits, one hand on the revolver he often wore. His presence guaranteed her safety, and although she’d fussed with Boone about it, she knew the things that could befall her. Once the biscuit dough was made, rolled out, and cut, she located some sausage and started frying it in a skillet. Biscuits and gravy sounded tasty, she thought.
“Exactly what are you doing in my kitchen?”
The sharp voice startled Rachel, and she nearly dropped the pan of biscuits. Zeke leapt to his feet, hand resting on his pistol until he recognized Mary. With a bravado beyond his years, he drawled, “Making some biscuits and gravy so we don’t starve.”
“You’re stealing from me.” This early in the day, Mary looked as rough as she was. Lines cut deep into her face, and she winced at the light as if she might have drunk too much.
“I paid you with a $20 gold piece,” Rachel said. “I haven’t used a quarter of that.”
“And I’ll pay more if needed, and so will Boone,” Zeke added. “We’re not thieves, Mary.”
The saloon owner grunted. “I’ll need more if you’re staying and eating here. I let Boone stay out of the goodness of my heart when I thought he was dying only because he got shot in my place. He’s not dead and now I got three of you under my roof. She’s bad for businesses, being a respectable woman and all, and causing all kinds of talk.”
Rachel’s stomach twisted into a knot. “What talk?”
“What talk?” Mary mimicked in a falsetto voice. “Talk about an unmarried woman bunking with two cowboys over a saloon that offers sporting – both drink, cards and ladies. Some like that blacksmith want you run out of town.”
“Kurtz?”
“That’s his name. If he comes here again, I’m likely to shoot him myself,” she said. “How’s Boone anyway?”
“He’s healing,” Zeke stated. “But he’s barely been out of bed yet. He’s got a way to go.”
“I need that room back soon,” Mary told him. “I got a new gal who could be making me some money in it.”
Rachel put on a proud face, but inside, she wanted to cry. Her chest hurt with unshed tears. She’d never had much but her pride and a reputation. She’d told Boone she wasn’t a lady, and she had never claimed to be, but the gossip upset her. Thanks to the blacksmith, she’d lost her position as schoolteacher, a place to live, and her social standing. Although she’d never told anyone, Kurtz had an eye for her. More than a few times, he managed to brush a hand across her breasts or hip as if it were accidental. His apparent moral outage seemed to come from his disappointment that he hadn’t got a chance to enjoy her favors. She had little future in Laredo but little money to return to northeast Texas or join one of her brothers. Without Boone and his brother, she had absolutely nothing. Boone made it no secret he planned to return to Kentucky in the spring, and though he’d kissed her and made her feel like he cared, Rachel wasn’t sure what the future would bring. Boone seemed like a good man, a dependable, decent one, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he thought he could take liberties with a woman who slept under a saloon’s roof with two men. The possibility made her chest tighten even more.
The joy she’d had lying in Boone’s arms faded, and embarrassment replaced it. She said no more as she finished making the meal. Ezekiel dealt with Mary and promised her that they’d talk about compensation, but she wasn’t paying much attention. He helped her carry the biscuits, the gravy now thick with sausage, plates, and spoons upstairs. She’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee, knowing how much Boone liked it, and she carried that plus some cups.
“Figure out what you plan to do and let me know,” Mary called after them in a shrill voice as they climbed the stairs. “And soon, you hear me. I’m not running a boarding house for wayward cowboys and schoolmarms.”
Maybe Boone had an idea, Rachel thought, but she had none. Her options were few, and her future seemed both bleak.