11

CONNOR WATCHED JOE lead Excalibur around the enclosed pen and scratched his head. In a matter of days, the boy had transformed the unmanageable stallion into a creature as docile as a pet—an accomplishment Connor hadn’t been able to achieve in the months he’d been working with the animal.

Connor lifted his boot from the fence and fought the pinch to his pride. He needed to see Joe as an asset, not as a source of competition. “Nice work, Joe,” he called out.

Joe raised his head and nodded. Beneath the large hat, Connor couldn’t quite determine the boy’s expression, yet his cheeks turned a deeper shade of red.

For a boy, Joe certainly blushed a lot.

And spoke very little.

Not that there was anything wrong with the strong, silent type, but Connor sensed a source of angst within Joe, as if his silence hid a dark secret. Joe’s home life was really none of his business, yet Connor couldn’t simply ignore his suspicions. If the boy was in some kind of trouble, he wanted to help. Sam Turnbull would do no less, nor could Connor.

Connor followed Joe into the barn and down to Excalibur’s stall. “Can I speak with you a minute, Joe?”

A look of fear leapt into the boy’s eyes before he lowered his head. “Yes, sir.” He continued unhooking the halter from Excalibur.

“How’s everything going?”

Joe frowned before turning back to his task. “Fine.”

Connor curbed a sigh of frustration. It would take a crowbar to pry any information out of this kid. He leaned against the stall door, trying not to feel like a complete idiot, poking into an employee’s personal affairs. “I meant . . . are things all right at home?”

Joe’s hand stilled on the straps. “Yes, sir.”

All Connor’s instincts screamed that the boy was lying. Connor forced himself to speak in a gentle manner, sensing Joe was as nervous as this high-strung stallion. He entered the stall and laid a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “If you ever need anything, you can come to me. No questions asked.”

Under Connor’s palm, a tremor went through the boy’s frame before he stepped away. “Thank you, Mr. O’Leary.”

“Why don’t you call me Connor? Mr. O’Leary and sir make me feel ancient.”

A faint twitch lifted Joe’s lips. “Okay,” he said.

“Well then, I guess I’ll leave you to your work.” Connor walked out of the barn, his gut churning with unnamed emotions. Something wasn’t right; he could feel it. Was the boy a runaway, maybe living in some abandoned hut? Or worse yet, camping out under the stars? With winter fast approaching, he had to be sure the boy had a proper roof over his head.

Connor tugged his hat down over his forehead with firm resolve. One way or another, he was determined to find out what the boy was hiding.

Later that day, at the time when Joe normally headed home, Connor sat astride his buckskin, Dagger, in the far pasture behind an oak tree, waiting for Joe to pass. If nothing else, maybe seeing where Joe lived might ease Connor’s mind. He prayed the boy lived with his parents in a respectable house, and that Connor’s imagination had been working overtime.

Right on schedule, Joe left the stables. He guided his horse down the road toward the neighboring farms.

Keeping back far enough not to be seen, Connor trailed the boy. About half a mile later, Joe slowed his horse. Connor quickly moved Dagger behind a thicket of bushes to remain out of sight. The boy looked right and left and then guided his mount across the grass toward a grove of trees.

Connor followed him through the wooded area, his heart thrumming. Why was Joe taking this strange route? When the boy exited into a clearing, Connor waited in the woods until he crested a small rise, then followed once more. He hoped he hadn’t lost Joe’s trail, but as he got to the top of the hill, Connor saw the old log cabin—Joe’s obvious destination.

Joe rode his horse to the rear of the structure and, after several minutes, appeared on foot. He opened the door and entered the cabin.

Connor tried to make sense of the puzzle. From what he could tell, there was no evidence of anyone else living there. No wash hanging on a line, no flowers to brighten the windows, no remnants of a garden where the family grew their vegetables. Was Joe poaching on someone’s land?

Connor mentally calculated the distance to the Sullivans’ farm, then straightened in the saddle. Though they’d come around it by a different route, Connor was sure this cabin belonged to the Sullivans—that it usually housed the farm manager and his family.

Did Joe’s father work for Mr. Sullivan? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned it?

Connor set his jaw as he turned Dagger around. Seemed it was time to pay his friend Caleb Sullivan a visit and see what he could tell Connor about their foreman.

Once inside the cabin, Jo pulled off her father’s hat, removed the annoying netting, and shook her long hair loose. In her bedroom, she threw the hat on her bed and grabbed her hairbrush. With hard strokes, she pulled the bristles through her hair, not even minding the snags. Anything was better than the infernal itching.

She quickly braided her hair, changed into a dress, and went to check on Pa. He awoke as she entered the main room.

“About time you came back,” he groused. His unruly salt-and-pepper hair sprang up in all directions and a slight beard hugged his jaw.

Jo would have to get Seth to give Pa a bath and a haircut soon.

“Can I get you anything before I start dinner?”

“Yeah, some whiskey.”

Jo stiffened. Not this again. She’d hoped after this long without alcohol, Pa’s cravings would wane. “How about some coffee?”

He snarled. Jo took that as a yes.

In the kitchen, she set the pot on the stove, then pulled a larger pan from the icebox and lifted the lid to examine the leftover soup. Barely enough to stretch for one more meal. Jo sent up a quick prayer that Seth would bring some food home with him.

When the coffee was ready, Jo filled a tin mug and brought it to her father.

“Feeling any better, Pa?” She set the cup on the rickety table beside him.

“My leg feels like it’s on fire. You got any more salve?”

She went to the shelf in the kitchen and retrieved the tin of salve, as well as a basin of water and a cloth. She’d been trying her best to keep the wound on his shin clean, but the fact that it wasn’t healing as fast as it should worried her. The swelling from the sprain had started to lessen, but the long gash seemed to be getting worse instead of better.

She knelt by the sofa and rolled up his pant leg, holding back a grimace of distaste. Not only did the wound look terrible, but it smelled bad. A sinking sensation settled in her stomach. This cut needed more than her meager skills.

Her pa needed a doctor.

Jo sighed. If she dared even mention it to her father, he’d bellow louder than the Sullivans’ bull. But the angry redness, along with the putrid odor, told Jo that an infection had taken hold. Without treatment, Pa might lose his leg.

Jo lifted her head. She met her father’s worried gaze. If only Pa didn’t have such a distrust of doctors. She focused back on his leg, determined that this time she wouldn’t give him a choice.

As she bathed the wound, her thoughts churned. Connor’s sister was a nurse and the man staying at Irish Meadows was a doctor. Surely they would help if she asked.

She applied the salve as gently as possible. Pa sucked in a hard breath and swore. Jo could no longer sit by and do nothing. Pa might not be the best father in the world, but he was the only one she had.

She took the basin of dirty water to the door and flung it outward, a decision firming in her mind. Tomorrow she would ask Miss O’Leary if the doctor could come and examine Pa.

Jo cringed at the thought of having someone come here, of having to keep up the deception within these walls. What if they figured out she was lying? That she was really a girl?

They’d surely report back to Connor, who would send her packing faster than a flea off a dog. He might even warn the Sullivans about them.

What would they do if both she and Seth lost their jobs?

Jo swallowed hard and straightened her spine.

For the sake of her father’s health, it was a risk she’d have to take.

Per Matthew’s instructions, Deirdre had started giving Mama a massage every morning to limber up her muscles prior to Matthew’s grueling exercise routines. The therapy definitely seemed to work better that way. This morning, Deirdre took special note of the way Mama’s arm and leg reacted to the massage. Her muscles seemed looser, taking less time to become agile.

A flutter of joy moved through her. Mama was indeed showing small but significant signs of improvement.

She set her mother’s heel gently on the floor. “How’s that, Mama?”

Her mother gave a soft sigh. “Wonderful. I do believe the circulation is improving in my hand and foot.”

“Your observation is correct, Kathleen.” Matthew breezed in the door, looking crisp and efficient in his doctor’s coat. “I see definite improvement in the overall condition of your muscles, and your grip is much better than when we started.”

“Does this mean I can play the piano?” Mama quipped.

Matthew’s lips twitched. “Soon, I hope.”

A sudden rush of tears hit Deirdre with unexpected intensity. She moved to the far side of the room on the pretense of arranging the equipment, biting her bottom lip to gain control. Up until now, she’d managed to contain all trace of emotion, giving in to tears only when she was alone in her room. But this time was different. These were tears of pure gratitude. For the first time, Deirdre saw proof that her mother would make a full recovery.

She slipped a handkerchief from her pocket and tried to dab unobtrusively at her cheeks.

“Is everything all right?” Matthew whispered near her ear.

The small hairs on the back of her neck rose. “Fine.” She stuffed her handkerchief back into her pocket.

“Then why are you crying?”

She glanced sideways at him and, noting his concerned expression, managed a smile. “I’m just so grateful Mama’s getting better. I don’t know how to thank you.” On impulse, she gave him a quick hug. “Thank you for allowing me to assist with the therapy. It feels good to be able to do something to help her.” She smiled again through her tears. “I think we make a pretty remarkable team.”

Matthew cleared his throat. “That we do. Now, if you’ll pass me the rubber ball, we’ll continue our work.”

She handed it to him. “I think I’ll get some fresh air. I don’t want Mama to see me upset.”

He gave her a long look and nodded. “We’ll be right here when you get back.”

Deirdre walked out to the foyer, pulled her shawl from the hook, and draped it around her shoulders. As soon as she stepped outdoors, her tension seemed to fade away. A few minutes in the crisp autumn air would certainly restore her equilibrium, though she wasn’t sure what had thrown her more, Mama’s improvement or Dr. Clayborne’s nearness. She only hoped her hug hadn’t offended him. She really must learn to curb her enthusiasm.

Deirdre strolled along the path leading to the pastures and paused to appreciate the landscape.

“Excuse me, Miss O’Leary?”

A stable hand—the one who had saved them from the stallion—came up behind her. The boy’s shoulders were slouched forward, his eyes almost hidden beneath the brim of his overlarge hat.

“It’s Joe, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At a sudden gust of wind, Deirdre pulled her shawl closer around her. “Please call me Deirdre. What can I do for you?”

“I understand you’re a nurse.” The boy’s voice seemed forced lower than what was natural.

“I am.” She peered at him. “Are you sick?”

“Not me . . . but my father is.” He lifted his head to reveal vivid blue eyes shadowed with anxiety. Fresh-faced, with no hint of stubble on his jaw, the boy couldn’t be more than sixteen.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the matter with him?”

“A leg wound. I think it’s infected.” Joe shuffled his feet, the worn boots seeming too large for him.

“I could give you some salve—”

“I’ve already tried that.” He stopped and seemed to collect himself. “Could you . . . Would you ask the doctor if he’d come and examine my father?”

“That won’t be necessary. I can do it.”

“No offense, but I really think Pa needs a doctor.”

Deirdre swallowed her ego and managed a nod. “I’ll ask Dr. Clayborne. Where do you live?”

Joe bit his lip and looked around as though making sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “In a cabin on the other side of the woods. It’s kind of hard to find.”

She stared at the boy. Something about him—about the whole situation—seemed odd, but she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly bothered her. “We’ll meet you by the stable when your shift ends.” She had no doubt Matthew would agree to see the man.

Relief stole over Joe’s face. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Deirdre watched the nervous lad stride back toward the barn and made a mental note to speak to Connor about him. She trusted her brother’s instincts about people. If anything was amiss, Connor would have noticed it, too.

Still, she didn’t want to make trouble for the boy. To be fair, she’d wait until she’d seen the father. Then if her senses still told her something was wrong, she’d have to involve her brother.

“I have a favor to ask.”

At the sound of Deirdre’s voice, Matthew set the silver coffeepot on the sideboard in the dining room. He’d been trying his best to forget the hug she’d given him. Forget the flowery scent of her hair beneath his nose and the feel of her warm figure in his arms.

“What type of favor?”

She reached for an apple from the bowl on the table. “You remember that young stable hand—the one who calmed the stallion?”

“Of course. He likely saved my life.”

She cocked her head to one side, exposing the long line of her neck. “He asked if you would come and examine his father. Joe fears a leg wound has become infected.”

Matthew stiffened. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling it.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I thought the same thing, but Joe insisted his father needed a doctor.”

With deliberate care, Matthew stirred a spoon of sugar into his coffee, willing his breathing to remain even. The thought of treating a stranger’s wounds unleashed a flood of anxiety, as well as a rush of unpleasant memories—dying soldiers on the battlefield, Priscilla wasting away before his eyes, his utter helplessness at not being able to save them. Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he grappled for a suitable excuse. “I promised Phoebe we’d spend time together . . . later today.”

Deirdre swallowed a bite of apple. “It won’t take long. You’d still have time for Phoebe.” She studied him. “Is something wrong?”

He sighed. How did the woman manage to see right through him? “Of course not.”

“Good. I’ll come with you, and once you assess the situation, I can do the treatments. I think Joe just needs the assurance that a doctor has seen the wound.”

Matthew took a quick sip of coffee, attempting to steady his nerves. How threatening could a leg wound be? And he did owe the boy. “Very well.”

“Thank you.” The brilliant smile she gave him almost made it worthwhile.

She crossed to the door and paused to look back, mischief gleaming from her expressive eyes. “You do ride, don’t you, Doctor?”

“Ride? As in horses?” His anxiety level shot skyward.

“Yes, unless you’d prefer a pony like Twizzle.” She grinned, apparently enjoying his discomfort.

“I haven’t ridden since I was a boy.” He frowned. “Can’t we take the car?”

She shook her head. “Not through the woods we can’t.”

“Oh.” He drew himself up, trying to preserve some dignity.

Her laugh echoed through the room. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you our most docile mare. You’ll be fine.”

Matthew held back a sigh. This day was getting worse by the minute.