Chapter Eleven

Dark clouds hugged the horizon. They’d have to hurry if they wanted to beat the approaching weather. The temperature had dropped enough that they could expect snow or an icy rain. Either would put a damper on their trip, if not halt it altogether. The last thing she needed was to be trapped on the mountain with a man who turned her insides to porridge.

Anson Locke was far too keen-eyed and would surely notice any unseemly behavior. He would question her, just as he’d questioned her flight from the meeting hall after their dance. He thought he had upset her. He was partly right. He had upset her. He’d turned her world upside down. With his touch, with the rich timbre of his voice, with his scalpel-sharp intelligence. She couldn’t risk exposing her attraction to him. It would only complicate a tenuous relationship. They needed to focus on finding the source of the arsenic and saving the townsfolk from any further harm. Not on fruitless entanglements.

She reined her mount to a stop at the base of a steep incline. Witch hazel twined throughout a thicket of pines that paraded up the side of the slope. In its midst, a grizzled tree leaned on its neighbor as if returning from a night of drunken revelry. This was the right spot.

She pointed up the slope. “Mr. Jukes’ place is just over that rise. It would be easier if we leave the horses here and travel the rest of the way on foot.”

Anson cocked his head back and eyed the incline. “This Jukes fellow sure did pick a most inaccessible place to live. I see now why you suggested we wear more serviceable garments.”

She unhooked her leg from the sidesaddle and slid to the ground. The bulky jacket and heavy wool clothing would do more than keep him safe from the underbrush. It would also keep his lithe form hidden. The less distractions she had, the better.

“What do you know about Mr. Jukes?” He dismounted and led his horse closer. “How long has he lived up here?”

“When I spoke with him last year, he said he has lived on the mountain nearly half his lifetime. All alone, except for Miss Ruby.”

“Miss Ruby? Is he married?”

“No. That’s what he calls his donkey. He’s very fond of the animal. She’s like family to him.”

Anson looped his horse’s reins around a low-hanging tree branch. The gelding nosed into the foliage and began foraging. He gave the horse a pat. “That’s encouraging. Mr. Jukes must have some compassion in him to care so deeply for an animal. Perhaps it will give us an edge in gaining his trust and cooperation.”

“Perhaps. But, we should still be cautious.”

“Is he dangerous?”

She secured Dolly’s reins to a bush, yanking the knot tight. “Only if you threaten him or his brewing operation.”

“Well, I will make all attempts to put his mind at ease. I prefer to avoid digging bullets out of my own hide.”

A shiver skipped down her spine. As much as she wished Anson Locke out of her life, she didn’t wish him any harm. He was a good man. And a great doctor. The world would miss him. She ignored the voice yelling, as would she.

She gave Dolly a pat and turned toward the incline. It was going to be a tough climb, but it would be worth the effort if it provided the answer they were seeking.

“I’ll take the lead going up,” she said. “That way when we crest the hill, Mr. Jukes will see me first and hopefully remember my visit last year.”

“As much as I balk at the idea, your suggestion has merit. Take your time and be careful. If you need any help, I’ll be right behind you.”

Was he concerned because of his physician’s oath, or was there something more? Something deeper. Silly to be speculating on such a thing. There could be nothing between them. He was sophistication and education. She was earthy and plain. The two simply didn’t mix.

She gathered her skirts and began slogging up the hill. Heavy footfalls trailed behind her. He was close. Too close. She could almost feel his panting breaths warming her backside. All she had to do was make a misstep and she’d tumble into him. She shook off the notion of being held in his arms. Best to concentrate on climbing and avoid any calamities.

The top of the incline loomed ahead. She pushed over the edge and stopped at the edge of a small clearing. A wood-hewn cabin sat nestled in the center. The chimney was quiet. Nothing moved in or around the dwelling. The place was still as a cemetery.

She cupped hands to her mouth and called out, “Mr. Jukes? Are you here? It’s Miss Devlin, from town. I’ve come for a visit.”

The only reply was a fervent braying. Corralled in a pen just off from the cabin, Miss Ruby trotted frantically around the enclosure, nose in the air, hollering for all she was worth. Surely such a racket would bring Mr. Jukes running to find out what had his long-eared companion in a tizzy. Yet the cabin and surrounding woods remained still.

She crossed to the pen and leaned over the railing. Miss Ruby raced over and nuzzled her hand. Her tail flicked back and forth like the pendant on an overwound clock. Something was wrong. The few times she’d seen the donkey, it had been quite placid, almost indifferent.

Footfalls thumped behind her. “There’s no one here,” Anson said. “Mr. Jukes must be away on an errand.”

“He’s not close. That’s for certain. All this noise would have surely brought him running.”

“You sound concerned?”

She pointed to the empty water bucket. “If he planned to be gone for any amount of time, he wouldn’t have left Miss Ruby without any water. And her feed tub is dry as a bone. It’s not like him to mistreat her so.”

“Perhaps his errand is taking longer than expected.” He reached over the pen and picked up the water bucket. “I’ll fill this from the water barrel I saw sitting by the wood shed. Then I’ll have a look around. See if there are any clues as to his whereabouts.”

She nodded. “Good idea. I’ll look inside his cabin.”

As she headed for the log hut, a light spattering of rain began to fall. Drat, she’d hoped the weather would hold off until they finished their task. If it wasn’t for bad luck, they’d have none at all.

She pulled the leather latch on the door and pushed inside. What little sunlight there was dribbled into the small, single-roomed shack. Two chairs flanked a table that held a half-eaten plate of food and a coffee tin. The fireplace was silent and dark. Not even a hint of a glow shined in the grate.

Worn, but clean, floor planks squeaked under her steps. She stopped in front of the fireplace and stooped, holding her hand over the ashes. Cold. He’d been gone for at least a day, if not more. And hastily, based on the clutter left on the table.

A quilt-covered cot sat near the hearth. A trunk rested at the foot with its lid raised. She didn’t want to snoop through his personal affects, but a quick peek wouldn’t hurt.

She crossed to the trunk. Inside was a folded stack of clothing, a pair of moccasins, and a heavy fur coat. He clearly planned to return, otherwise he would have taken his things with him.

“Miss Devlin,” Anson called out. “Come outside. I believe I have found our brewer.”

Good. Her examination of the cabin had only raised more questions. She ducked through the doorway and paused on the stoop. The clearing was empty. Miss Ruby stood in the pen with her nose sunk in the water bucket.

The surrounding woods were silent except for the occasional birdie-birdie call of a cardinal.

She turned in a circle. “Dr. Locke? Where are you?”

A movement near the woodpile caught her eye. Anson stepped from behind the stack, hand upraised. “I’m over here.”

She crossed to his side. He was alone. “Where is Mr. Jukes?”

He gestured behind him. “He’s over there just beyond the wood line near a creek.”

Realization dawned. “He’s dead, isn’t he.”

“I’m afraid so. Based on the stage of rigor mortis, he passed sometime yesterday. Come I’ll take you to him. You can make sure it is our Mr. Jukes.”

Dear Lord. Not what she expected at all. She trailed him into the woods. As they neared a shallow creek, a vile odor waved a greeting. She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and covered her nose. That must be why Miss Ruby was so upset. The animal could probably smell the rot.

A coverall-clad body rested at the edge of the creek. An up-ended bucket sat beside it. Pale eyes stared skyward. A gaping mouth, sliced into a swollen, gray-tinged face. There was nothing she could do at this point. Her healing only worked on the living.

“Do you recognize him?” Anson asked. “Is this Henry Jukes?”

She leaned over and gave the body a closer look. “The bloating has contorted his features a bit, but it appears to be him. I recognize the cottony white hair. I had commented on its striking color when we met. He said it came from his mother’s side of the family. Can you tell what he died from?”

Anson squatted and rolled the man onto his side. “There aren’t any obvious signs of trauma. No blood, or open wounds. An autopsy would reveal more, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he succumbed to an internal failure of his organs.”

“From arsenic?”

“We’ll have to test his water source, but if I were a betting man, I’d wager it was arsenic poisoning that did him in.”

“Poor man. He probably had no idea he was killing himself.”

Thunder cracked overhead, startling gasp from her. A few seconds later, the drizzling shower turned into a hard, icy rain that pelted the earth and cut visibility to a few yards.

Anson pushed upright. “That’s it then,” he shouted over the din. “You go back to the cabin and get a fire started. I saw a shovel propped against the wood shed. I’ll get Mr. Jukes buried as quickly as I can and join you.”

****

Anson shoved the cabin door shut with the heel of his boot and set the bucket of water he’d collected from the creek on the floor. Shivers crawled over his arms and down his legs. That was a damn cold rain. And damned inconvenient. He’d hoped to be back in his office, warm and snug…and alone. Now he had to endure sheltering in a small, one-room cabin with a woman who set his body on fire.

She leaned over the hearth, poking at the flaming logs, her backside swaying in invitation. He stuffed down a groan and stripped off his jacket and hat. There was nothing for it. The rain didn’t appear to be letting up, and dusk was fast approaching. It would be too dangerous to attempt riding down the mountain in the dark. They would just have to hunker down and wait for morning.

Moira straightened from her task and faced him. “There’s a clean towel on the table if you want to dry off. I have coffee brewing. It should be ready soon.”

Perfect. He could use something to warm his insides. And it would give him something to focus on besides his cabinmate. Floorboards creaked as he crossed to a table with hewn logs for legs and a slice of tree trunk for the top. In contrast, the two chairs flanking the fireplace were professionally crafted and polished. Henry Jukes had been as eclectic has he had been reclusive.

He gathered the towel and began scrubbing his face and rain-sodden hair. A sneeze drew his attention to the hearth. Moira had pulled a chair up to the fire and sat with a thin wool blanket draped around her shoulders. Steam rose from her skirts, dark now and drooping with rain water. She should get out of those wet clothes before she took ill. But he was reluctant to suggest such a thing. It was bad enough being in such intimate quarters together. To have her undress might be his undoing.

A vision emerged of smooth, silky skin, exposed for his viewing and touching pleasure. Heat that had nothing to do with the fire rose inside him. He fisted the towel and scrubbed harder, attempting to wipe away his randy thoughts.

“There are a pair of trousers and a shirt in the trunk if you want to change into something while your clothes dry by the fire,” she suggested through a sniffle. “They’re not much, but they are clean.”

She appeared to be comfortable being alone with him…even suggesting he undress. If she could maintain her composure, so could he. With a little adjustment.

He arranged the towel over a chair back. “That won’t be necessary. You have a good fire going, and there’s plenty of kindling. My clothes should dry soon enough.”

He gathered his jacket and hat and crossed to the hearth. After hanging the wet things on a peg, he settled on the chair next to her. A pair of boots and thick wool stockings rested on the hearth. Propped at the edge of the stones, pink toes peeked from beneath a muddied hem. The slender digits were perfectly formed and smooth. Would she moan if he took them into his mouth? Another wave of heat surged through him and settled in his groin. He ground his teeth around a curse. What the hell was wrong with him? He was torturing himself with such thoughts.

Heaving a grunt of annoyance, he leaned over and worked on removing his rain-soaked boots and socks. Once done, he stretched his bare feet out to the fire. Heat bathed his throbbing toes, and he sighed in contentment. There. That’s the only pleasure he should be thinking about.

“Did you…um…get the horses settled?”

Her question croaked out on a raspy breath. Was she taking ill? He straightened in the chair and gave her a quick check. Only a slight flushing pinked her cheeks, but that could be from the heat blasting from the fireplace.

“The horses are under the lean-to with Miss Ruby. They should weather the storm just fine.”

“Good. I was worried about them.”

She was considerate of all of God’s creatures. Was it any wonder he was drawn to her? He picked up the iron poker and jabbed at the logs, sending flames licking at the coffee pot hanging over the fire.

“Where did you draw water for the coffee?” he asked.

“Not to worry. I cleaned the pot and then set it outside the door to collect rainwater. The coffee should be just fine. I found a jug of whiskey under the bed, though I don’t think we should drink any of that.”

Even if the whiskey wasn’t tainted with arsenic, they shouldn’t consume anything that would loosen inhibitions. He barely had a rein on his lust as it was.

“Agreed. We don’t want to take any chances and make ourselves sick.” He pointed to the bucket by the door. “Don’t use that water for anything either. I collected it from the creek near Juke’s still. It may be contaminated.”

“I wonder why Miss Ruby didn’t get sick? You would think she drank the same water as Mr. Jukes.”

“It’s hard to say. Perhaps he watered her from the rain barrel. Any contaminates would have settled to the bottom. Or, wherever he drew water from the creek for her wasn’t contaminated. Testing will answer many of our questions.”

“Why don’t we do that while we wait for the coffee to brew? There’s a crate of glass jars over by the bed. They appear to be unused and should be sterile enough for testing.”

“I suppose there’s no sense in waiting. The sooner we know for sure if there’s arsenic contamination up here, the better. Let’s start with the whiskey. That’s what most of the menfolk in town have been drinking.”

She pushed upright, her pretty toes disappearing under her skirt. “I’ll get the jug. Since you have the poker, you can fish out a piece of charcoal.”

He nodded and thrust the poker into the embers. The logs cracked and popped, complaining of the intrusion. Orange embers danced upward and disappeared into the flue. It was a mindless task and served to ease the tension coiled inside him.

Skirts brushed his legs, and the sleeping serpent roused once again. He groaned and fisted the poker handle. He had to stop reacting to her every touch or it was going to be a long and most uncomfortable night.

The jug thumped onto the hearth. “Is everything all right, Dr. Locke?”

Hells bells, had she heard his moan? He wagged his head. “Everything’s fine. Just having a little difficulty finding…” He jabbed deeper into the embers and unearthed a walnut-sized chunk of charcoal. “There. Got one.”

“Good.” She set two glass jars onto the hearth next to the whiskey jug. “Now we can get started.”

Using the poker head, he broke the charcoal in half and scooped a piece into each of the jars. He then uncorked the jug and poured a small amount of whiskey onto the shard in one jar.

Moira leaned closer and held out a match. He pinched the stick just above her fingertips, making sure not to touch her. He finally had his desires tamed enough that he could work without making a fool of himself. Even the slightest graze could undo that.

He struck the match head against the hearth stones and set flame to the whiskey-soaked charcoal. The blaze glowed a cool blue.

He shook the match dead. “At least it’s a good quality distillate.”

Her head cocked in that curious way he was coming to adore. “How do you know it’s good quality?”

“I used to accompany my grandfather on his monthly trips to Virginia to restock his supply of moonshine. He said the clear, cool water of the Blue Ridge made the best whiskey. He would pour a sample into a spoon and set fire to it. If the flame burned blue, it was good quality. A yellow flame meant the whiskey was tainted. Grandfather was meticulous if he was anything.”

“You are close with your grandfather then?”

“Was. He died six years ago this month.” Even now, sadness clamped around his chest, making breathing an effort. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and worked to bring himself under control. Weakness was not tolerated. It only led to mental deterioration.

“I can see how much his passing affected you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Her soft voice spread over him like a soothing balm. He rose and fished in his drying jacket for the photograph tucked in an inside pocket. The keepsake was a little worn, but thankfully dry. He smiled down at the familiar face washed in sepia.

“He took me in when my mother passed…and my father couldn’t cope with her death. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him.”

She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his. “He has a kindness in his eyes. Like you.”

The ache slicing his heart eased. “He was the kindest man I ever knew. Never judgmental. Always encouraging. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it wasn’t for him.”

“He must have been a very special gentleman then. You are a wonderful person and a most caring doctor.”

“Not so wonderful to everyone.” He looked up from the photograph and into soft ebony eyes. His chest tightened. “I’m sorry I have been so harsh with you, Moira. I let my emotions take over my good sense. You don’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. Grandfather would be disappointed in my behavior.”

She rested a hand on his arm. “Please don’t worry yourself over it. I understand how grief can take hold of a person. I also lost someone near and dear to my heart.”

Her tone turned wistful, her expression sad. He wanted to take her in his arms. Comfort her as she had comforted him. But that would lead him down a path he wasn’t yet ready to travel.

“I don’t deserve your understanding…but I’ll take it.” He returned the picture to his jacket pocket. Best get back to the task at hand before things got out of hand. “Let’s return to our testing, shall we?”