CHAPTER
8

Ben gritted his teeth as the wagon bumped down the road, determined to hold onto consciousness. His head felt like a smithy’s anvil with the blacksmith pounding a sledge against the back of his skull over and over. Yet even through the haze of pain, he’d noticed which direction Tori had steered the team. Whatever had her spooked about this road, he didn’t want her facing it alone. Even if the only attackers were memories from her past. He might not be able to fight off a flesh-and-blood enemy at the moment, but he could battle ghosts. And he aimed to do just that.

“I see the house up ahead, Ben.” Tori twisted slightly to toss the words over her shoulder. “We’ll have you there soon. I promise.”

He grunted a bit in response. It was all he could manage with the majority of his energy being spent staving off the darkness that kept encroaching. Her continued use of his given name served as a pleasant distraction, though. Ben’s mouth quirked up just a bit at the corners. The fact that she hadn’t reinforced the formality between them now that the initial scare had passed gave him hope that one barrier might have finally come down.

The wagon dipped to the left as Tori turned off the main road. Ben couldn’t see much beyond sky, but he could hear a dog bark and children’s voices. He relaxed just a bit. Kids generally meant womenfolk and family. Less chance of Tori running into another unsavory character.

Hercules added his yips to the orchestration as Lewis shuffled across the wagon bed and lifted up on his knees to get a better view.

“What do you see, scamp?” Ben mumbled the words, but Lewis seemed to understand.

“A big white house, and a tree with a rope swing! And kids. A boy who looks a little older than me and a girl. She’s short. And she’s got a doll.” He reported the last with such a tone of disgust, Ben would have chuckled if he wasn’t sure the vibrations would set off a cataclysm in his head.

“Any grown-ups?”

Lewis made a show of looking right then left. “Nope. Wait. A lady just came out the front door.”

He heard a woman’s voice calling to her children. “Michael. Daphne. Come up to the house.”

The team slowed, and Ben grabbed onto the side of the wagon. As soon as they stopped, he was going to drag himself to a seated position. He didn’t want these folks to think him completely incapacitated.

“Please, I need help.” Tori started her plea before the horses halted. “My . . . friend is hurt. He was kicked in the head by a horse while protecting my son. If you could spare some medical supplies, I can tend him out here. I just need some soap and hot water—spirits, if you have them—and, perhaps, some salve and clean bandages.”

“There’s too much dirt blowing around out here,” the other woman said, her voice closer now that the wagon had stopped. “Let’s get him in the house. Michael, go fetch your pa. He’ll want to help.”

She came up alongside the wagon, and Ben finally got a look at his hostess while he slowly edged upward. Marching down to the rear of the vehicle, all business, she reminded him a bit of Tori. Blond, on the tall side, blue eyes. Eyes that widened when they fastened on him. She pulled up short at the tailgate.

“He certainly is a big fellow, isn’t he?”

Ben attempted a smile, but the scenery seemed intent on spinning and playing havoc with his stomach. The smile turned into a grimace as he concentrated on keeping the nausea at bay. “Benjamin Porter . . . ma’am,” he managed to force out as he gripped the wagon side and closed his eyes. If the world would just stop spinning. . . .

“Ben! You should have waited for me.” The wagon wobbled a bit, no doubt from Tori climbing up into the bed. An instant later, her hand clasped his shoulder. “Here. Wrap your arm around me.” She reached for the arm that didn’t have a death grip on the wagon side and wrapped it around her neck.

He cracked his eyes open a smidge. “I’d never . . . turn that . . . request down.”

Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. Score one for him.

“Lean on me,” she said, not letting his teasing interfere with her mission. “The wagon edge is not far.”

All thought of further teasing left him as he clenched his jaw and focused on keeping his head as still as possible as he inched his way toward the tailgate. As soon as his legs dropped over the edge, a second set of shoulders pressed themselves beneath his other arm. Ben forced his fingers to release the wooden slats at his side and let some of his weight fall on the woman whose name he still didn’t know. Not that it mattered. She was helping. Names could be exchanged later.

As the two women aided his pitiful progression up to the house, Tori admonished Lewis to stay on the porch and keep Hercules in line. The second woman gave similar instructions to her daughter, telling her to welcome their young visitor and perhaps introduce her doll to his puppy. Ben could imagine how well that suggestion would go over. He just hoped the doll didn’t end up a doggie chew toy.

Ten minutes later, the women had him sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, his head unwrapped, a box of medical supplies open and ready. Tori insisted on cleaning the wound, her thoroughness rather painful to endure, but Ben managed to tough it out by gripping the seat edge and clamping his jaw shut to keep any unmanly moans from slipping out. When she reached for the whiskey, he knew he was in trouble, but he braced himself and only let out a small hiss when the liquid fire hit his scalp despite the fact that it felt like acid eating a hole through his skull.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” Tori soothed, her hand cupping his shoulder as she blotted the excess wetness from his nape with a towel and waited for the liquor to evaporate. “I’m almost done.”

Too bad. He was rather enjoying her fussing over him. Well, except for the excruciating pain. Tori had never voluntarily touched him. Soothed him. Murmured his name in the affectionate tone usually reserved solely for Lewis. Getting kicked in the head seemed to have advanced his wooing. He could live with temporary pain if it helped him claim a permanent hold on the woman he loved.

Yet when he watched her fish a threaded needle out of a shallow tray filled with whiskey, a few dozen second thoughts reared their heads. He wasn’t a fan of needles. Jabbing and poking and dragging thread where it didn’t belong. He’d suffered through it a few months ago after the outlaw attack, and he remembered the squeamish feeling all too well. A shiver coursed through him.

Be a man, Porter. Men don’t flinch.

Making sure his feet were planted squarely on the floor, Ben sat up tall and nodded to Tori when she asked if he was ready. The jab of the needle wasn’t so bad. It was the long tug of the thread that sent his stomach swirling. Praying that the Lord wouldn’t allow him to disgrace himself by puking all over his hostess’s kitchen floor, Ben closed his eyes and inhaled long and slow, doing all he could to keep his innards under control.

Jab. Pull. Jab. Pull.

Breathe, man. Think about something else. Anything else.

Jab. Pull.

Unfortunately, nothing else came to mind. He tried to think about Tori, about holding her in his arms while she smiled adoringly up at him, about lowering his lips to hers . . . but since she was the one instigating his torture, the pleasure he usually derived from that particular fantasy fell a bit short.

“Just two more should do it,” Tori encouraged.

The sharp prick of needle entering flesh for a fifth time registered a second before the back door opened and a man stepped in, the boy Ben had noticed earlier at his side.

“Frannie?” The man’s gaze immediately sought out his wife. “Are you all ri . . .” The words died, and his eyes widened, no longer fixed on his wife but on Ben. Slowly the man raised his hands and stepped protectively in front of his son.

What was the fellow doing? Ben was no threat. He was woozy and bleeding and had a hole in the back of his head, for pity’s sake.

“Easy, lady,” the man said. “Put the gun down. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Lady? Ben slowly turned his head, ignoring the pain radiating through his temples.

There stood Tori. Face ashen. Eyes panicked. Hands clutching . . . a pocket pistol? What was she doing with a gun? And why did she have it trained on a man they’d never even met?

“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, the words broken, angry, desperate. “Don’t touch me.”

Ben eyed the man, then cast a quick glance at the boy cowering behind his pa. A boy that bore a striking resemblance to the one playing outside with his new puppy. Suddenly Ben’s head was the last thing he cared about. Using the table as support, he slowly pushed to his feet and balled his hands into fists.

It was only the wife’s indrawn breath and the way her eyes filled with empathy as she gently approached Tori that made Ben pause.

“Heaven’s above. You’re from Deer Spring, aren’t you.” The quiet words were more statement than question as the woman, Frannie, gently touched Tori’s shoulder.

Tori didn’t seem to notice the contact. Every ounce of her attention remained focused on the man in front of her.

“He’s not Paul,” the woman said, her voice firm yet compassionate. “He’s not the one who hurt you. Look closer. His eyes are a darker brown. His nose has a bump on the bridge. He has an old scar along his chin from when he fell out of a tree as a child. He’s not Paul. This is Jed. Jed Crowley. My husband. He means you no harm. Please. Put down the gun.”