Wil had been sleeping on the cot for two weeks, and feared he’d go loco before long. Aside from Doc’s help to the privy outside and the kitchen for meals, he was confined to the cramped corner or to the dining room they didn’t use for dining. Where he sat now with his casted leg elevated on a chair near the hearth. A sight warmer than the surgery.
The dog lay in front of the hearth, halfway between him and Lena Carver, but watching him, not her.
Lena had ridden a wide circle around him until lately. A lively conversationalist at the table, she had an opinion about everything and didn’t mind expressing it. Including her preference of Lena over Miss Carver. But otherwise, she managed to keep her distance from him, and Wil knew why.
His ma hadn’t raised no heathen, and he felt like a heel for frightening the gal that night he came to with her in his face. But they were never alone for him to apologize. And he was fairly certain her brother didn’t know what had happened. Letting him hear an apology might throw grease on an otherwise friendly fire.
All Wil could do was watch her in hopes of catching those green eyes, but she was a master at avoidance.
So was her brother when it came to talk of the livery.
If Wil had to drag himself into town, he would. Last he’d heard, his Uncle Otto owned the livery stable in Piney Hill, and Wil had written ahead that he was riding this way in hopes of wintering there, then scouting out the country. A gullet full of trail dust had put him in mind of his own herd and enough land that he could ride out a ways if the settled feeling got to be too much for him.
Colorado was as good a place as any to raise a few beeves, but his plans went slack somewhere between the road south from Denver and the outskirts of Piney Hill.
All those nights he’d stayed at camp when the boys lit out for the nearest bar to throw their money at liquor, cards, and women. All those months he’d added to his stash, rolling it in an old sock and tucking it deep in his saddlebags. All those dreams of having his own spread.
Everything he had was in his vest and saddlebags. Now his stake was gone, along with his good horse, saddle, and rifle. So was any memory of what happened to him. One day he’d accepted his pay, thanked the trail boss, and turned Duster south.
Next thing he knew, a beautiful woman was dangling from his hands, while railroad spikes drove through his busted leg with every heartbeat.
He owed the Carvers plenty. From what he’d seen delivered to the house and heard referenced at the supper table, Doc took anything for payment, from eggs and milk to bed sheets and horse feed.
But Wil didn’t have anything to give the man and his sister. The shirt on his back belonged to someone else, some generous soul he didn’t even know.
“How long before I’m sound enough to leave?”
Lena sat tearing bandages as if he didn’t exist.
The doctor took off his spectacles, laid them on a medical book in his lap, and gave Wil a longsuffering look. The kind he might give a clueless child.
“You can’t put full weight on it for another six weeks. The fibula needs time to reattach and heal solid. Without that happening, you’ll be a cripple the rest of your life.”
Same answer as the other two times he’d asked. Fewer weeks, but they still tallied up to eight.
And the answer still stuck in his craw.
He never had been good at confinement, the primary reason he’d left home as a kid and trailed that first herd. But wintering with his uncle had made sense. He could help. Curry and comb, muck stalls. Pitch hay and pay for his board. Nailing shoes on might be a stretch now, given his busted leg.
The timing couldn’t be worse.
He leaned toward a stack of firewood at the end of the hearth, calculating how far he needed to go to get Lena’s attention. A quick reach for a split log tipped the chair.
She looked up.
Using the log to brace himself, he locked on her, refusing to look away.
Beg your pardon, he mouthed.
Her eyes flicked to his lips and back. She puffed a sigh, then gave a short nod and went back to tearing strips.
Somewhat satisfied, he scooted to the edge of his chair and tossed the log onto the fire. “How far to the livery?”
Sister and brother exchanged a glance, and the spectacles came off again.
“Do you have a horse there?”
“Wish I knew. But I need to see if the owner is my uncle. If he is, he might have seen Duster or heard about what happened.”
That stilled the bandage tearing.
“Duster?”
“My horse.”
Doc fiddled with his eyeglasses, then smoothed his already smooth hair. “What’d you say your uncle’s name was?”
As if he didn’t know. “Otto Bergman. Big German, built like a tree.”
Doc closed the book and laid it aside with the spectacles on top. “Think you could work crutches and not put weight on your leg?”
“I can crow hop, it that’s what you’re asking.”
Lena’s mouth curved in what some folks might consider a smile.
Her brother left the room, but she didn’t follow him.
Wil leaned forward to scratch the top of his propped-up foot. “Is he always this talkative?”
The almost-smile flashed again, but she cut him a warning instead. “He’s been holding off on the crutches because you’re too eager to get on your feet. If you rush things, you could re-break your leg, get it infected, and slow your recovery. You need to just do what he says.”
Her left hand slid under the apron.
He’d been staring and hadn’t realized it. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Stare?”
Her candor shamed him even further, but a thud-clomp-thud in the hall derailed his mental scrambling.
The bottom end of two crutches popped over the threshold, and the doctor swung himself through, landing on one foot. The other was bent up behind him. He crossed the room, turned, and crossed again before stopping in front of Wil and offering him two well-used wooden crutches, the tops wrapped in lamb’s wool and doe skin.
“Let’s see what you can do.”
Wil took hold of the long, smooth brace pieces and slowly stood on his right leg. The crutches weren’t long enough for his height, but at this point, he’d try branding irons.
One pass across the room was easier than he’d expected, but turning around was trickier. He felt like a newborn calf trying to gather its legs. Falling wasn’t an option, and it near wore him out.
He pivoted and planted the wooden pegs, tempted to lower his left foot for balance.
“Don’t do it.” Carver had the same authoritative eyebrow Wil had seen on his sister.
He raised his foot, irritated by his weakened state and annoyed at how heavy the plaster was. “Can you take off the cast?”
“Absolutely not. Cross the room again. And don’t set that left foot down or I’ll tie it up.”
Under different circumstances, he’d like to see Doc try it and not come away needing a cast himself.
He must have scowled, for Lena covered her mouth.
Two more passes across the room, and he had to sit down. More like fall down, but he did land in the chair.
“Not bad, not bad,” Carver said as he picked up his spectacles and book. “Tomorrow morning, Lena can help you navigate the front steps, then you can take a spin around the house and cabin. I’ll be making my calls, but if you’re up to it after dinner, we’ll go to the livery.”
Lena’s hornswoggled look boded poorly for her brother’s recruiting tactics.
Wil didn’t need an angry nursemaid telling him how to get around. He’d go to the livery on his own. “Where is it?”
“Farther than you think.”
He didn’t much cotton to the view from under somebody else’s thumb. But he’d been out cold when he came to the Carvers’ home and had no idea about the layout of the town. It couldn’t be too different from every other wide spot in the road he’d ridden through, and he guessed the livery was at one end.
Or the other.
Hang fire. If touring the dining room winded him, he’d be a sorry sight if he chose the wrong end of town and had to hobble to the other.
Angry nursemaid it was.
~
The next morning, Lena pressed her mother’s fluted biscuit cutter into soft dough and laid a dozen rounds in a baking pan. The day had just begun and already she was behind.
Honestly. Sometimes Tay was short-sighted as a blind turtle. Wasn’t it bad enough that he’d pointed out her spinsterhood to a perfect stranger? Now she had to attend that stranger while he stumbled around on crutches that were too short. And with all she had to do.
Men!
With her wrist, she pushed hair out of her eyes, then topped the biscuits with a dash of cinnamon. Tay was, by nature, generous and caring, but not toward the blacksmith since the man had been so rude to her. It must be the Christmas spirit that prompted Tay’s trip to the stables.
That same spirit was also prompting her. Six weeks was hardly time enough to keep up with all her regular chores, polish and clean the house for the big Christmas dinner, and finish the required baking.
Sliding the biscuit pan into the oven, she chided herself for using that costly cinnamon on breakfast rather than saving it for Christmas cookies.
Saving butter wasn’t any easier, and they were down to their last mold. Davy Perkins had brought over fresh milk yesterday, which meant another chore today—churning. To go with baking and cleaning, and now touring the yard with Mr. Bergman.
Her thoughts stuttered at the name, considering the differences between uncle and nephew. Otto Bergman was the most unfriendly man she had ever met. He wanted nothing to do with neighborly charity or Christmas generosity, and warned her last year to stay away from his livery unless she had livestock-related business there.
Distance had been an easy thing to keep, a practice she’d also maintained with the nephew since she’d gotten too close on his first night in the surgery. Between his glass-eyed dog and his own lightning reflexes, she’d watched her step. But it was irritating, to say the least. This was her home. She shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells.
All the more reason why his apology caught her off guard.
When she’d nodded her acceptance, the planes of his face softened in the fire’s light, further surprising her. His expression appeared almost kind, in spite of his beard and family connections.
He’d nearly apologized again for staring at her hand, but Tay’s arrival had prevented the pity she so despised. She saw it enough on everyone else’s face. For some unprecedented reason, she did not want to see it on Wil Bergman’s.
Never mind it. He’d soon be gone. Conversation would be more subdued at the kitchen table, and their daily routine would return to normal.
An unexpected note of sadness vibrated through her heart, like a single string plucked, its voice left to quiver and fade.
A telltale clomp-thud began at the other end of the house in muted accompaniment.
Wil’s frustrated efforts at moving his angular frame on those short crutches last evening had been almost humorous. But he’d persevered, and for that he’d earned Tay’s respect as well as hers.
She wiped her hands on her apron, then smoothed it over her skirt and tucked stray hairs into the knot at her neck.
And why shouldn’t she respect him? She respected other men. Her father and brother. The pastor. Yes, Pastor Thornton. She respected him too. An honorable man who shared his faith in a clear manner without unnecessary adornment.
Respect for Wil Bergman was completely understandable. With perhaps a dash of pity for his predicament. But that was as far as it went. Absolutely no reason in the world to dread the day of his departure.
None at all.
She took a deep breath and smoothed her apron once more.
A final thump sounded directly behind her, snagging her breath.
“Mornin’.” The smile in his voice lit her heart the same way the lamp brightened the pre-dawn kitchen.
“And good morning to you.” She looked halfway over her shoulder. “Coffee’s hot and breakfast won’t be long.”
Grateful for her busyness, she laid salt pork strips in a cold cast-iron skillet, then set it over the hottest part of the stove.
“How can I help?”
She glanced back. “Help?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I still have two good ha—”
Silence slid between them.
Her face tightened, her jaw clenched, and she whirled.
“Don’t you dare. I am as I am—I have never known anything else. Figures of speech are a way of life, and I am comfortable with being different, so stop apologizing for something you have nothing to do with.”
A burning began in her chest, worked up her neck, and into her face. She hadn’t meant to lash out or be hurtful.
Hunching over on the crutches, he was nearly eye to eye with her. Dark, warm eyes that drew her, and she mustn’t let them. She may enjoy his company—more than she cared to admit—but she didn’t know this man. Didn’t know where he’d come from, where he was going, or what he stood for.
But as he said, he did have two hands.
“Sit.”
He frowned.
His dog obeyed, taking its place by the back door.
She pointed to the nearest chair at the kitchen table. “Right there. Sit down and I’ll put you to work.”
The butter churn invited her to scoot it from its corner with her foot while holding the dasher with one hand. Then she fetched the large jars of milk she’d left on the porch overnight to separate.
He looked like a child sent to cut a switch, and she couldn’t contain her laughter. “Have you never churned butter, Mr. Bergman?”
His features hardened.
“Well, you offered, so this is your chore. Remove the churn’s lid and pay attention.”
“On one condition.”
“I beg your pardon?” He had conditions? Of all the nerve. Perhaps her respect was misplaced after all.
He crossed his arms and set his shoulders. Even under the loose-fitting nightshirt, they presented a formidable defense.
She followed suit, and they held each other’s gaze as if in a school-yard stare down.
His mouth hitched—what little she could see of it behind his untrimmed whiskers.
Breakfast would burn if she played this game any longer. “And what is your condition?”
“That you call me Wil.”
His request dislodged her stoicism and she lowered her eyes, fearing that a blush would spread across her face.
He didn’t play fair.
“Very well.”
“Very well, what?”
The dreaded blush inched upward. A moment longer, and she’d be flashing hotter than the frying pork.
“Very well, Wil.”
He smiled.
It was nearly her undoing.
She pulled a wooden ladle from her crock of cooking utensils and demonstrated how to carefully skim the cream into a bowl.
“From the bowl, pour the cream into the churn, return the lid, and start plunging.”
He gave her a rather confidant look for a man who had never set his hand to such woman’s work. But she had much to do and was fresh out of time for curiosity or sympathy.
Taking the crutches, she pulled out another chair and insisted he lift his leg to it. “You’re all set.”
Tay came downstairs and stopped at the kitchen door, clearly battling which role he should play—attending physician or teasing brother.
She poured coffee and set three cups on the table. Tay took his customary seat and gave her a mock scowl over the lip of his cup. “You’ll have him so worn out, he won’t be able to ride to town this afternoon.”
The dasher hit hard against the bottom of the churn. “I’ll be fine as flint and ready for it.”