The Indian was barely conscious when they reached the cabin. Kaylee backed over Dusty's rump, then hurried around to help him dismount. He didn't argue this time. Sliding her arm around his waist, she helped him inside. He was staggering by the time they reached the cot, unconscious before his head hit the pillow.
She spent the next thirty minutes treating his wounds, silently berating him for undoing all her good work. The wound in his side had opened again because of his exertions, but the carbolic seemed to be keeping infection at bay. He needed a doctor, she thought. At the very least, he needed someone who knew more about doctoring than she did. Someone like her mother. Emma's father had been a doctor back in New York City, and Emma had been his assistant before she got married.
When she had done all she could for him, Kaylee covered him with the blanket. She stood beside the cot, watching him, wondering why she felt so drawn to him. What was there about him that intrigued her so? She lost track of the time as she stood there, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Unable to help herself, she smoothed the hair back from his forehead. Such a strong, masculine face. She studied him a moment more and then, afraid he might try to leave again when he woke up, she tied his hands to the bed frame.
It was for his own good, she told herself. Not because she was afraid he would leave and she would never see him again.
She covered him with a quilt and then, with a last look, she left the shack.
Shaun Randall frowned when his stepdaughter came to the dinner table, late for the second night in a row. "Where have you been, Kaylee Marie?"
"Out riding."
"You've been spending a lot of time in the saddle lately."
Kaylee held her stepfather's gaze. He was a tall, handsome man, with thick black hair going gray at the temples and hard brown eyes. "My chores were done."
He grunted softly. "Be on time for dinner in the future."
"Yes, sir." Kaylee glanced at her mother, then looked down at her plate, remembering happier days.
When she was a child, mealtimes had been a time of conversation and laughter. Gaylord Matthews had been a cheerful man, imbued with an outrageous sense of humor, a man given to telling tall tales at the dinner table. The good times she and her mother had known at meals had died with her father, though. Shaun Randall was a stern man who did not waste time indulging in idle chatter with his womenfolk.
Shaun finished his dinner, tossed his napkin on his plate, bestowed a cool kiss on his wife's cheek, and left the dining room. Kaylee knew he would spend the rest of the evening in his study, going over the ranch accounts.
"Where were you, Kay?" her mother asked quietly.
She looked up to find her mother watching her, a speculative look in her eyes. "Out riding, like I said." Her chin lifted stubbornly.
"You've never lied to me before, Kaylee Marie," her mother said, as quietly as before. "Don't start now."
Kaylee felt herself wilt under that calm regard. "I need your help, Mama."
Concern clouded Emma's eyes. "Are you in trouble?"
"No, Mama, no! Nothing like that." She leaned across the table. "Could you come with me? Now?" she asked urgently.
"Come where?"
"I can't tell you."
"Kaylee."
She knew that tone, but she pressed onward. "And you have to promise you won't say anything to Shaun."
Emma studied her daughter for what seemed like an eternity. She folded her napkin precisely and placed it on the table beside her plate before she spoke. "Kaylee Marie, what's wrong? What have you done now?"
"I haven't done anything. Well, not exactly. Will you come? And promise you won't tell Shaun?"
Her decision made, Emma stood up. "I promise."
Her mother made no effort to hide her shock as she looked down at the Indian tied to the cot. No doubt Emma had entertained a dozen possibilities as to what awaited her when they reached their destination, but Kaylee was pretty sure that tending a wounded Indian had not been one of them.
But Emma reacted like the surgeon's daughter she was, cutting away the soiled cloth that held her daughter's dressings in place and gently lifting the edges of the compress, which was glued to the Indian's skin with his own blood. After she assessed the damage, she glanced at Kay. "Where did he come from?"
"I found him across the river."
"Kaylee Marie! What in the name of heaven were you doing across the river?"
"Hiding from Randy. We were playing hide-and-seek. Is he going to be all right?"
Emma turned her attention back to the man on the bed and finished peeling the bandage away from his side.
"You did well with the carbolic, Kay, but this wound needs to be stitched closed. Heat some water for me."
Warmed by her mother's praise, Kaylee laid kindling in the old woodstove, fanned it until it was burning steadily, added a few larger pieces of wood, then took the blackened kettle outside. Her stomach knotted at the thought of what her mother was about to do.
She primed the old pump, rinsed out the kettle, and filled it. It was a warm, clear night. Millions of stars twinkled high overhead, tiny pinpoints of light shining like dewdrops against an indigo sky. Crickets played an evening serenade, accompanied by the croaking of frogs. An owl swept past on silent wings.
She had stalled long enough. With a sigh, she returned to the cabin and put the kettle on to heat.
Emma was seated on one of the cabin's rickety chairs beside the bunk, calmly threading the slender silver needle she always carried with her. As far as Kaylee knew, her mother had never been this close to an Indian before, but you'd never have known it by looking at her. She seemed as calm and serene as always.
The Indian was awake, his body tense as his gaze shuttled back and forth between her mother's face and the needle.
Emma looked up at Kaylee and smiled faintly. "Nothing to do now but wait for the water to boil."
If the ensuing wait seemed long to Kaylee, she could only imagine how it must seem to the Indian. But he showed no emotion save for the perspiration that covered his face and chest.
When the water was boiling, Emma wet another cloth, waited for it to cool a moment, then carefully swabbed the wound. Next, she dipped the needle and thread in the boiling water, then hitched her chair closer to the bunk.
"Bring that light over here, will you, dear?"
Kaylee picked up the lantern and held it where her mother directed. She didn't mind the sight of blood. She could castrate bulls with the best of them, but the thought of taking stitches in a man's skin made her break out in a cold sweat.
Kaylee held the lamp in both hands in an effort to keep it steady. She bit down on her lower lip as her mother slipped the shiny silver needle through the Indian's sweat-sheened flesh. She knew she couldn't watch.
When she looked away, her gaze met the Indian's. His jaw was rigid, his entire body tense, as her mother took another stitch in his side. How did he endure the pain? She knew she would be screaming, crying, thrashing about, but he just lay there, unmoving, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his fists tightly clenched.
She risked a glance at his side and had to choke back the bile that rose in her throat as she watched her mother take one last tiny stitch, neatly closing the wound.
Kaylee looked back at the Indian's face. He was staring at her, his jaw rigid, his lips almost white with pain. She had an overpowering urge to brush the hair back from his brow, run her fingers over his cheek, and assure him that everything would be all right.
His eyes narrowed and his expression softened, almost as if he could read her thoughts.
"There," Emma said, wiping the blood from the area around the wound. "We'll redress the others, and that should do it."
"I don't know, Kay, but I've done all I can. The rest is up to him. And to God. Is there any hot water left?"
"A little."
"I'll brew him a cup of willow-bark tea, and then we'd better get home."
"Is it safe to leave him?"
"Whether it is or not, we can't spend the night here. You know that."
Kaylee nodded. Even though her parents no longer shared a room, she knew there were nights when Shaun couldn't sleep. When that happened, no matter what the hour, he sought his wife's company.
"I could stay with him," Kaylee suggested.
"No."
"But he has a fever. What if it gets worse?"
"And what will I tell Shaun if you miss breakfast? And what about church?"
Kaylee shrugged. "Tell him I got up early and went out to check the north pasture with Rudy and Chad," she said, thinking fast. "I was going to do that anyway."
"I don't like it, Kaylee. And what difference will it make if you come home with me now, or first thing in the morning? I wish there was somebody else we could trust with this."
Kaylee was heartened by the "we." It meant her mother was on her side, that she too was concerned for the Indian's life.
"There is," Kaylee said. "Randy helped me bring the Indian here. He promised not to tell anyone."
Emma's expression brightened. "Randy's not much for going to church. I don't imagine it will grieve him to miss another meeting, so this is what I'll do. I'll stop by the Harris place on my way home and ask him to come out here. If I know Randy, he'll be here just as soon as he can." She glanced at the Indian. "You're not to untie him for any reason. I know you have your gun, but have you considered whether you would really use it? To take a human life?"
Kaylee looked at the Indian uncertainly, knowing he was following their conversation. She met his gaze unflinchingly. "I saved his life. So it's mine to take if he gives me any trouble." She fancied she saw a glimmer of admiration in the obsidian eyes.
"All right," Emma said at last. "Just keep your gun handy. And remember that Randy will be along soon."
"Don't worry, Mama, I'm not like the Thomas sisters. I can take care of myself." She patted the Colt in her skirt pocket for reassurance. "He's just one sick Indian, not a whole tribe."
"This is no time for jokes, Kaylee Marie," Emma said sharply. "And if you were as flighty as Charlene and Geraldine, I'd never let you out of the house alone. Now you let that tea steep for a few more minutes, and if his fever gets worse, you come home and get me."
"Do we have to keep him tied up? He looks so uncomfortable. I hate to cause him any more pain."
"I know he's uncomfortable, Kay, but there's no sense taking any chances. Either you promise me you'll keep him tied up and keep that little Colt close to hand, or you're coming home with me now."
Kaylee knew when to quit. "All right, Mama," she said solemnly. "I promise."
Emma glanced at the Indian and shook her head. "I think I liked it better when all you brought home were birds with broken wings."
Kaylee smiled again as she walked her mother to the door and gave her a hug good-bye. Then, with a sigh, she closed the door.
She was aware of the Indian's gaze on her back as she went to the stove and poured the tea into a tin mug. She stirred it, reminding herself that he was tied up, that he was weak and injured, that there was nothing to be afraid of.
He watched her walk toward him, his eyes betraying none of his thoughts, his face impassive.
"You need to drink this." Slipping one arm under his shoulders, she lifted his head so he could drink.
He drank the tea slowly, watching her the whole time.
When the cup was empty, she drew the covers over him and moved away from the bed. Needing to be busy, she rinsed out the cup, then went outside and gathered some more wood. She dropped the bloody rags in a bucket of water to soak and then, with nothing else to do, sat down in the rickety chair beside the fireplace.
To keep from staring at the Indian, she took a visual inventory of the shack's sparse furnishings: two cots, one on either side of the room. The cast-iron stove, a rickety table, and two chairs, including the one she was sitting on. A shelf made out of two wooden crates was nailed to the wall. One door. One window.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the Indian shift his weight on the bed. He must be terribly uncomfortable, she thought. Lying there with his wrists tied to the frame of the cot didn't allow him much movement. But that was good. It would keep him from tossing and turning and maybe reopening his wounds. Still, she was tempted to turn him loose, but she was getting sleepy and knew she would never be able to close her eyes if she released him.
Reluctantly, she met his gaze. Something passed between them, something she didn't recognize. Something that made her heart skip a beat and her insides go all soft and mushy. He had the most amazing eyes she had ever seen, deep and black and mysterious. She had the feeling that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Rising, she crossed the room to the other cot and curled up on the mattress, her back toward him. It didn't help. She could still feel him watching her, but there was nothing she could do about that. She kept her gun close at hand, remembering when she had fallen asleep clutching her favorite doll. Back east. A lifetime ago.
Blue Hawk listened to the girl's breathing, knew the moment when sleep claimed her. She was a mystery to him. He knew just by looking at her that she was afraid of him. Why, then, had she saved his life, brought him here? He knew there was no love lost between her people and his. There had been too many battles between his people and the White Eyes. Too many deaths. Too much blood shed. He had seen the hatred in the boy's eyes, heard it in his voice. But the girl was different. She hadn't looked at him and seen Indian. She had just seen someone who was hurt and in need of care.
He had never met anyone like her, never seen anyone like her, with her long golden hair and sky-blue eyes. Never, except in his vision . . .
He closed his eyes as pain twitched through his wounded shoulder. He needed to get away from here, needed to get back to his people. His grandmother was old and alone, her grief still fresh over the loss of his parents and his grandfather. But he was tired, so tired. Weak from the blood he had lost. And he hurt. Everywhere.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would find a way to escape.
Tomorrow . . .