July's Bride Page 3

  Amanda nodded, her hands trembling, her eyes searching his, as if awaiting a spark of recognition. There was none.

  He nodded distractedly then stepped closer to the bed. “You see, he sleeps.”

  Amanda’s gaze was still on July’s face. Shocked, she could not refrain from wondering at his obvious disregard. What did he mean by carelessly ignoring her?

  She studied his profile; it was a chiseled, darkly rugged face. Unkempt hair, coffee-colored, curled up and over his shirt collar. His eyes, equally dark, were framed by dark brows. His lips were taut, pulled down—but, suddenly, strangely, Amanda could imagine them warm with passion.

  She flushed. Good grief, she thought, where was her mind wandering off to now? The man had all but tossed her aside. Was he so arrogant? Did she dare remind him of who she was? Who she was supposed to be?

  She forced herself to look down at the boy, and her heart instantly sank. He was beautiful. Angelic even. Soft, blonde curls encircled his sweet face and the pale pink of his cheeks was the only indication that he yet lived under this facade of deep sleep. She circled round the edge of the bed.

  Doc Ashcraft nodded. “Davie.”

  Amanda fought the rush of tears. “Yes.” She then looked up into July’s strained and exhausted face. “I am so sorry.”

  July’s mouth framed the words, but no sound was released.

  Doc Ashcraft turned to July. “I have thought about this all morning. I think,” he began, “that if I leave Miss Hoffman here, she can relieve you. She’s a nurse. She’s trained. She can keep a watchful eye on Davie and give you time to rest, to work, to get caught up on all that needs tending. Yes?”

  Amanda swallowed her surprise. The doctor had not said a word to her of his plan. He’d not revealed anything on the way out of town.

  July started to refuse, but Amanda, recognizing the wisdom of the doctor’s suggestion and overwhelmed by her own furious and curious state of mind, found herself whispering, “I would be happy to sit with him, Mr. Chandler.”

  July turned to her. “I don’t know. I can’t afford—”

  The doctor held up his hand. “Not to worry. Miss Hoffman is my responsibility. She has arrived, as if by some divine intervention,” he said. “She will be an asset to this community, and to me. I have already seen her able hands at work yesterday while she assisted me in stitching up Miles Wood’s scalp. Compliments of Sheriff Ferguson’s pistol butt to the head.”

  July seemed to relax visibly at the doctor’s endorsement and Amanda’s heart softened. This man, she realized, was as doting a father as she’d ever seen. How could she begrudge him his forgotten promise? Even if she’d turned her life upside down to respond to his request for a bride, his life had been equally turned upside down by this terrible accident. “Miss Hoffman, I will be indebted,” he said then.

  Doc Ashcraft seemed to thrill at the idea. “Good,” he said, turning to her. “I will have O’Connell bring out some of your things? His wife, Nellie, can certainly help in that department. Yes?”

  Amanda nodded dumbly. Would she have no say at all? “I could return later?”

  The good doctor put a plump hand on her arm. “You stay. I just know having you on hand will give July—and me—great comfort. And now,” he said, “I will take my leave. I have been too long from a number of patients.” He leaned closer to her. “You have come at the exact, right moment in time, to be sure, my dear,” he whispered.

  Amanda swallowed. She wasn’t sure that she’d have phrased her arrival in those precise words. She glanced over at July once more, who had moved with the doctor out into the front room. He still seemed oblivious to who she really was.

  This man, she thought, this man!

  In more ways than one, she was evidently going to be tied to him. But before long, she would figure out what was behind those dark, almost surly eyes. And why he refused to acknowledge her!

  ▲♥▲

  July escorted Doc to the door. “Is there anything else?” he asked. “Anything more?”

  Doc turned. “July, I said it before. I’ll say it again. It is in the Almighty’s hands. We know so little about the brain. We have no way of looking inside. Of seeing what is needed. But his color is good. He seems at peace. And I do believe that his mind is at rest. It’s just a matter of time.” He held out his hand and July responded in kind. “And now that you have Miss Hoffman,” he continued, “you must rest. It will do no good for you to become any more exhausted than you are. Rely on her. Trust her. She has a confidence I have not seen since working with several nurses years ago, in the war. She can give you the opportunity to take care of yourself.”

  July nodded. He felt strangely unnerved by the woman’s presence. “I haven’t had a woman in this house in nearly three years,” he said.

  “And maybe that’s what you need,” returned the doc, shrugging. “Maybe that’s what you and Davie both need, eh?” He slipped his coat on. “I will send O’Connell with Miss Hoffman’s things. I assume you have a room for her, which will not compromise her reputation?”

  “Yes, of course,” July said. “She can have my room. I will move my things out into the barn. I have a cot there I use when we’re foaling. It will be fine.”

  “Good. She’s a keeper, I do believe,” said Doc, a slight twinkle in his eye. “I know she’s given me a sudden burst of energy. If I were but twenty years younger,” he added with a sweet smile.

  “I am not in the market for a wife,” snapped July. “I have had all the women I will ever need.”

  He relaxed and turned, just in time to see Miss Hoffman standing in Davie’s doorway, a look of surprised disdain on her face. He flushed. He hadn’t intended on raising his voice or embarrassing anyone. On the other hand, perhaps it was the right bit of caution to be made audible. She was a young woman—and rather handsome—and would, no doubt, be looking for a husband, eventually. He, however, had no intention of finding a new wife, ever again.

  He turned back to Doc. Apparently the old man had not noticed his nurse standing within hearing distance.

  July opened the door and waited for the doctor to pass through. “Thank you, Doc. I owe you, and I’ll be able to pay you—after I get the grain harvested and sold, that is. This late storm has really put a hole in our sails.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” said Doc Ashcraft. “Apart from delivering Miss Hoffman, I’ve not been able to do a thing for Davie.”

  July closed the door slowly. Turning, he nodded to Miss Hoffman who had entered the room. She moved quietly, he noted, her skirts barely swooshing. Hannah, on the other hand, had rarely entered a room without making a grand entry, her satin skirts and mountains of petticoats signaling her entrance long before she’d crossed a threshold.

  “I—I hope this is not an inconvenience for you,” he said. “And I fear the house is in disarray. It’s not seen a woman for—well, for three years, to be frank. Not that I expect you to do—anything—I mean, outside of staying with Davie.” He felt tongue-tied all of a sudden. “And I truly appreciate your attention, Miss Hoffman?”

  Miss Hoffman nodded, a serious, focused expression on her face. She really was a handsome woman, he thought.

  “Yes, Hoffman,” she said, drawing the word out. “And I’m a nurse, Mr. Chandler. A trained nurse. Seeing to Davie is what I’ve been trained to do.”

  He looked her over carefully, sensing that for some strange reason, she sounded angry. Angry at him?

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I do have chores to do. I’ll check in on Davie once more and then, if it’s all right, I’ll head out.” He sighed. “Every day I walk through that door, hoping against hope that he’ll be sitting up, a smile across his face, ready to laugh and play.” His voice cracked and he had to look away. “Nothing I’ve ever been through has ever been laced with such—such—”

  He took a deep breath. He’d said more than enough.

  ▲♥▲

  Amanda returned to Davie’s room. There was a chair, with a lap blanket folded neatly beside it, and a pitcher of water and small glass. Obviously Mr. Chandler had spent some long hours seated here.

  She sat down and leaned forward. Davie still slept. If one could call this state sleep. His face seemed paler in the early afternoon light—as if some ethereal spell had been cast upon him. He certainly did not appear to be in any sort of pain, however. For that, she was grateful; it was hard to watch children fight against the ravages of pain. She’d recently witnessed a fourteen year-old boy who had fallen off the tongue of a wagon. He not only fell into a sleep, but he crushed his arm and cracked several ribs. For days the boy lay in agony. Thankfully, though his arm would never work properly, he did survive.

  Would that God let this little one survive, too, she prayed.

  The house had grown strangely quiet. Apart from Davie’s rhythmic breathing, the only sound was the occasional trill of a meadowlark somewhere outside. She studied the boy’s features—delicate and sweet.

  Not at all like his father’s brooding features. She pulled at a thread at the hem of her shirtwaist, feeling nearly as flabbergasted as she had earlier.

  Mr. Chandler had yet to give her even the hint of acknowledgement, making her presence here—in Marian Creek—a strange reality. She’d come to marry July Chandler; now she tended his son.

  Was it that she was so unattractive he couldn’t abide her appearance? Was that it? Or—because Davie was now bedridden, he refused to think of himself, or her? Or—was the fact that she’d come west with little more than her person and her willingness to enter into marriage actually now abhorrent to Mr. Chandler? If so, why had he asked her to come at all?

  She bit her lip. The situation was more than baffling and humiliating. It was downright infuriating!

  She left Davie, still sleeping restfully, and entered the kitchen. It was clear, she thought, that Mr. Chandler had not spent any time cleaning it. Rolling up her sleeves, she set to work clearing off the roughly hewn table and bench. Next, she pumped water and brought it in to scrub the plank floor.

  She moved in and out of Davie’s room several times as she picked up the clutter and reorganized the shelves. Frowning at the poor stock of supplies, she resolved to tell Mr. Chandler that they needed a few things. She wasn’t going to subject herself to the scrutiny of those in town by traipsing into the mercantile to shop for July Chandler, but she would like to have food for herself, even if he didn’t care to eat. But she wouldn’t shop for him. Goodness, he was already fodder for gossip; she didn’t want to become the newest morsel.

  The day was half gone when she finished tidying and cleaning. Taking a cup of hot coffee, she re-entered Davie’s room and sat down. His face was turned toward her, and she wondered if there had been some recovery since she’d been in earlier. His features appeared more relaxed, or was that just her imagination?

  She leaned forward. “If you can hear me,” she whispered, “I want you to know that your father is just outside. I will be here, too. My name is Amanda Hoffman, and I’m a nurse.” She leaned back and took a sip of steaming coffee. Then she closed her eyes and sighed.

  Who’d have ever thought, she wondered, that she’d be here, with Mr. Chandler’s son—nursing him—while the very man to whom she’d committed herself was here, too, blithely ignoring her very existence? It was so confounding that she simply didn’t know what to do.

  ▲♥▲

  July finished repairing the last of his fences, which the storms had twisted in every which-a-way. He packed up his tools and headed back to the barn, but his emotions seemed every bit as twisted as any barbed wire fence.

  It wasn’t just Davie that filled his mind.

  In the days since the accident, he had resigned himself to that situation—at least for now. Life on the plains was fragile, heart-breaking sometimes, at best, but the doc believed Davie would very likely survive and be okay. That had been his prayer; not only that his son would survive, but that he’d be whole. Life was tough enough for an able-bodied man here in the West, but for Davie to become an invalid or worse—an idiot—was no way to live.

  Now, however, he had an additional burden to worry over: Miss Hoffman.

  Her eyes, which seemed to bear down on him, seemed to want something he was not sure of. What, he wondered? What?

  He slipped his toolbox into an empty stall in the barn. He’d turned the entire herd of horses out for the time being. It had been too difficult to try and tend them with Davie requiring so much of his time. Later, if possible, he’d head out to the pasture and check on them. As distracted as he was, he couldn’t ignore them. They were what he’d spent the better part of his adult life nurturing, and the fact that he’d developed a strong reputation as a man who understood horseflesh, was his best insurance against poverty.

  Hannah had managed to milk him for as much as she could. The horses were what would save him from losing anything more.

  He glanced toward the house. A simple one, it was nonetheless, better than most in Marian Creek. That had been his gift to Hannah: a house where he thought she’d be comfortable and happy.

  Still, he was glad for it now. It was a good home for Davie.

  He stamped his boots clean, then wiped them along the horseshoe boot scraper he and Davie had forged together. The sudden smell of freshly baked bread aroused his curiosity.

  Miss Hoffman was standing at the cook stove, her hair pulled back against her neck, her face flushed from the heat as she bent over a kettle. She turned, a look of surprise washing over her.

  He hadn’t realized she was more than just handsome. She was downright pretty—and in this light, quite provocative. He shifted his weight as he stepped into the kitchen. He was simply not prepared to deal with a woman of her character in his house, he thought. He fought the bitterness welling up in his throat.

  A woman would only complicate his already complicated life.

  “I didn’t know what else to prepare, so I made some bread and a kettle of boiled pork. I hope that was okay.” She straightened, her surprise having been replaced by a look of sudden impatience. Or was it disdain? Dislike?

  Damn the woman, anyway!

  He stammered, feeling like a schoolboy in her presence, “Thank you. I—uh—have not been tending to the foodstuffs, I’m afraid. Perhaps tomorrow I should head to town and gather up a few supplies. But I really didn’t think—expect—that you would be cooking, or—”

  He glanced around the room then, suddenly aware of the fact that this woman had somehow felt obliged to take care of him, too. “There was no need to—”

  Miss Hoffman turned back to the stove. “If I’m to eat, I think someone will need to cook and, at least, pick up.”

  He said nothing. He was thoroughly tongue-tied—again. Irritated, he stomped through the kitchen and down the hall to Davie’s room. He sighed and entered, his heart—as always—in his throat, his hands damp with the familiar anxiety and fear.

  He sat down, his eyes taking in the delicate frame of his son—his wonderful son. He bowed his head and tried to pray, but the words were scrambled in his mind, just like everything he had been trying to understand in the last couple of years.

  Was life meant to be so bitter? Difficult, yes. Exhausting, yes. But bitter? Hadn’t he been raised on the adage that hard work brought its own reward? Hadn’t he been taught to believe that God helped those who helped themselves?

  If so, where was that help now?

  ▲♥▲

  Abe stomped into the bunkhouse. Gabriel was sprawled out on his bunk, naked as a jaybird. Obviously drunk, the man had disappeared for two days after hearing that the woman he’d contrived to bring west was, suddenly now, residing at July Chandler’s house, but without blessing or explanation. How or why Doc had allowed her to move in was absolutely unaccountable.

  “Get up, you fool!” Abe was in no mood to soften his anger. Gabe had compromised this poor woman’s reputation—no, her future mayhap—through his own foolish romantic notions of bringing love into July Chandler’s up-ended life. “Get up, damn you!”

  He put his boot on the edge of Gabe’s cot and shook it. “You are going to get on your horse and get over to July’s place this morning. You are going to explain what you’ve done—and I don’t know how or if you can repair the damage—but if nothing else, you’re going to wipe the slate clean.”

  Gabe moaned and turned slightly, his tongue lolling like a hound dog’s.

  “Damn you,” Abe repeated. “Get up and get moving.”

  Gabe opened one eye. “No, Boss. You can put a bullet to my brain, if’n you want, but I can’t.”

  “You will if I have to drag you there by your heels.” He kicked the bunk again. “I’m going to go saddle our horses and when I come back, you better be on your feet and dressed. You got some heavy explaining to do and more than a couple of apologies. I have half a mind to make you marry this poor woman yourself, but Lord, Lord, what would she do with you?”

  He shoved hard on Gabe’s bunk one last time, then stomped back to the door. “Mind you, get up—or if not, then get your naked ass off this place, for good!”

  Abe headed over to the barn, his face hot with rage. Gabe had had no right to meddle in July’s affairs. More than that, though, he’d meddled in this poor woman’s life and now, she might well find herself the butt of every man’s joke. It was simply no way to treat a decent woman. And how she’d ended up at July’s because Doc had thought it wise to do so made the situation even more befuddling!

  The old fool had probably just added more fuel to July’s angst. Abe knew well enough that July had enough on his plate without throwing in a bride.

  He saddled up Gabe’s roan mare and then led his own sorrel out of his stall. The poor horse was about on his last legs after being foundered last spring. He patted his flank and spoke gently. “Hank, you and me have got to get this situation cleared up. Emma would skin me alive if she knew what had happened to this young woman. She’d have skinned me with my own boning knife.” He smiled then, knowing his Emma would not have harmed a hair on his head—but, well, she’d have given him a strong dose of her disapproval.