“My father was a doctor. I learned a lot from him. That’s how I was able to take that bullet out of you last night. I’ll see what I can find to help the pain.”
Jake watched her slender body, heard her skirts rustle as she moved out of the room. She returned carrying a brown bottle. She handed it to Jake. “Just a couple of swallows. Too much isn’t good. A man can get as dependent on this stuff as whiskey.”
Jake reached out and took the bottle. Their fingers touched, and a strange warmth moved through him. He could tell by her eyes and the slight blush in her cheeks that she had felt it too. He uncorked the bottle and took a couple swallows of the bitter liquid, grimacing at the taste. Then he handed the bottle back to her.
“You should probably try to eat something,” she told him. “I’ll clean up and then fix you some vegetable soup and some tea. You just rest while I get things together. I have to go let out the horses first. Maybe later this afternoon I can shave you.” You also need a bath, she wanted to add, but how could she bathe him now when he was fully conscious? That would just have to wait until he could do it himself. She turned to leave.
“Mrs. Hayes,” Jake called. Miranda stopped and turned, embarrassed for feeling a sudden flash of womanly longings when his fingers had touched her own. She looked at the bed but did not meet his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
Miranda could not help looking at him then. “I’m the one who shot you, Mr. Harkner.”
“You didn’t really want to do that. I could tell…the minute you pulled the trigger. I saw the look of surprise in your eyes. And now…you’ve helped me when you could easily have…let me die. Not one person would have blamed you for it. They would just figure…society was rid of another rat.”
“I have yet to decide whether I did the right thing, Mr. Harkner. And as far as my helping you last night, for all we know I botched the whole thing. I’ve never taken a bullet out of anyone before. You aren’t out of danger of infection yet, so don’t go thanking me too quickly.”
Jake watched her leave, and he closed his eyes again, sinking back into the feather pillow. For the moment, he was at this woman’s mercy, and there was no way around it. Fact was, he felt a kind of comfort here. This was the woman who had shot him, yet now, lying here under her care, watching her gentle eyes…crazy as it seemed, the woman gave him a feeling of security, something he had not felt since he was very small, in his mother’s arms. He had never stopped missing his mother, never thought he would find anyone who brought out those sweet, childish feelings that he thought he had lost years ago. Mrs. Hayes was the kind of woman a man longed to know better, yet he didn’t even know her first name.
***
For the next week, Jake learned the hard way that the strange Mrs. Hayes’s last words had been too true. He got worse instead of better after getting out of bed that first morning, and the next several days were spent in fits of delirium from fever and infection. He vaguely remembered gentle hands, soft words, sometimes thinking it was his mother nursing him, as she had done once when he had been attacked by yellow jackets; and again when he’d fallen and broken his arm…and those many times she’d tended to him after his father had beaten him.
Someone bathed him almost constantly, trying to keep him cool, and when he came around enough to think clearly again, he realized someone had shaved him. He glanced at the bedroom doorway. The curtains were drawn back, and he could see Miranda Hayes moving around in the outer room. Something smelled wonderful, and she was placing fresh-baked bread on the table.
Miranda. He remembered she had told him her name later that first day, before he got sicker than he remembered being in his entire life. After that it seemed he saw everything in a fog, or through black pain. Either his head was reeling with misery, or his gut was screaming, or he was vomiting. It occurred to him that Mrs. Hayes had put up with an awful lot of ugly things to take care of him. Why on earth had she done it?
He breathed deeply. He felt better than since he’d been shot, clearheaded, almost free of pain, and he knew he owed his life to the woman in the outer room, unless she might still choose to turn him in. She had had time while he was ill to go to town and get someone, yet she had not done so. He raised the blankets to see he still lay naked, with towels over him, but he felt clean. He sniffed his arm and smelled soap.
“When you feel up to it, I’ll wash and cut your hair,” came the woman’s voice. Jake looked up to see her coming into the bedroom. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Harkner? Have you returned to the real world?”