River Bend Page 15

  Belle could stand it no longer. “Would you please sit before I get someone to help me tie you in a chair?”

  He glared at her and walked out on the porch where he continued to pace.

  Although she tried to ignore him as the others seemed able to do, Belle eventually joined him outside. Pacing beside him, she earned a hint of a smile from him as she tried to keep up with his long strides. When he slowed to accommodate her company, she spoke, a little out of breath for all her efforts. “What is worrying you, Mr. String?”

  He laughed out loud.

  “Well, that’s a start,” she said.

  “String is a nickname,” he volunteered. “No mister involved. Just String.”

  They continued their pacing.

  “Well,” she prompted, after a time.

  He shrugged. “Partly, it’s getting rid of my sea legs. This wooden plankin’ don’t move like the ship’s deck does. Sure feels funny when I take a step, but then it always does ’til we’ve been on land for a while.”

  “All right,” she said. “Now, what’s the rest? What is really bothering you, Mister, uh, String?”

  He stopped pacing and looked down into her face before he spoke. “Your eyes really are like emerald jewels. Just like he said.”

  “Who told you that?” Belle could feel a blush warming her cheeks.

  “Don’t matter none.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Don’t get your dander up, ma’am. It was the captain.”

  Her eyebrows shot up at that unexpected bit of information, and she could swear she felt fire leap into her eyes when she thought of Trader Jake saying something like that about her. “Why, I think that man is rude and insufferable.” When she realized String was taken aback by her lashing remark, she apologized, “Oh, I’m sorry, String. He’s probably your good friend.”

  “Yes, ma’am, he rightly is, and if that’s how you feel about him, I’d have to say you’ve never met the real man.” He took a step back. “And this talk is over.”

  Belle laid her hand on his weathered forearm. “Wait,” she said. “Please.”

  String halted but did not say anything.

  She removed her hand from his arm. “I don’t want the others to hear.”

  String nodded and moved closer.

  “I won’t tell you everything, but I do have my reasons for disliking your captain, String.” She paused before whispering, “Once, he hit me in the face with his fist and knocked me unconscious. So you see, he certainly has done nothing to win my favor or make me like him. I think he is rude.” She paused to catch her breath. “And he’s nothing but a big bully as far as I’m concerned.” She looked to the man standing beside her for his approval and understanding.

  “Yes, ma’am,” String answered, nonchalantly. “And like I said, I don’t think you’ve given the captain a fair chance.”

  Belle started to respond to his outlandish and opinionated remark but waited because she saw String tense and peer into the darkness. Keeping her silence, she listened with him. Although she saw nothing in the onyx night of the waning moon, she heard a familiar, rhythmic sound. The clip-clop, clip-clop of a lone horse plodding along reached her as did the faint creak of leather upon leather, like the sound of buckskin breeches astride a well-worn saddle.

  Even String’s voice was tense. “I knew somethin’ wasn’t right.”

  Belle started to ask what he was referring to, but the words died in her throat when a big roan materialized out of the black. On the horse’s back, a large man teetered and slumped over the saddle.

  String was off the porch in a flash to help ease the unconscious man from the horse, a man who was now sliding from the bloodied saddle.

  “It’s the captain,” String yelled. “There’s blood all over. Get me some help.”

  A quivering mass replaced Belle’s strong legs for a few seconds as she fought for control. Strange thoughts raced through her mind of the tall and virile sea captain with a taunting smile and rugged good looks, the trader with smoldering eyes and muscular chest, the man who always appeared confident, strong, and invincible. She could not imagine him bleeding and unconscious, totally helpless. A moment later, she gathered up her skirts and ran into the hotel to enlist aid for String while he struggled to bring the wounded man inside.

  The largest woman moved unbelievably fast to help String and Burcham carry the quiet form of Trader Jake into a small bedroom just off the hotel’s parlor.

  Absalom melded into the black night, leading Trader Jake’s horse toward the livery.

  Belle raced to the kitchen where she set pans of water to boil. With a lump in her throat, she brought a basin of cold water and soft cloths to the waiting group in the bedroom where she tore bed sheets into long strips for bandages.

  For several hours into the night, the group worked to stop the flow of blood from the man’s gaping shoulder wound, the big woman a godsend for her strength and stamina in applying direct pressure for long periods of time. At one point, she held the wound open with her strong hands, forcing tendons and muscle tissue aside while String and Belle probed for a bullet.

  Through shared effort and determination to succeed, they eventually retrieved the offending ball of lead. Finally, with the bleeding subsided and the wound cleaned, String and the larger woman wrapped the unconscious man’s shoulder and chest like a snug cocoon and made him as comfortable as possible.

  Belle insisted on sitting with the sea captain. She had experienced both pending death and long-term care of an invalid where the others had not, and even though she professed experience, his friends persisted in their rejection of her nursing abilities.

  “Please,” she said, “you hardly have your land legs yet, and you’ve had a long and exciting day. You need your sleep, all of you, so that someone can spell me in the morning. Mrs. Burcham is caring for Johnathan, and I swear I can’t sleep a wink right now anyway.”

  Welcoming an approving nod from Mr. Burcham, who stood in the doorway, Belle shooed them out of the small room. “Go on now. I’ll wake you if there’s any change.” She paused, then added, “Any change at all.”

  Mumbling an all right and a goodnight, the group left the room, with String insisting he would relieve Belle in three hours. She nodded, and the friends of Trader Jake disappeared into other rooms of the hotel.

  Moments later, fear swept over Belle. Sitting beside the unconscious man, who had lost so much blood he looked ashen, memories of another time assailed her tired and vulnerable senses. She had sat with her husband on his death bed not so long ago. He did not recover from a gunshot wound by an unknown assailant, and she wondered again what kind of place she had come to—a part of the country which she called home.

  Placing her face in her hands, she wept. In fear and grief, she shed tears for her late mother, for her late husband, and for this man who was rude and arrogant. He was neither—not now. She prayed for him, who despite his bronzed skin from months at sea, now looked like death incarnate. Praying for Trader Jake to get well, or for God to take his soul if that be Divine Will, she also prayed for her child.

  I have no earthly idea where we will live, now that my services are not required at the hotel. She wiped her wet cheeks until she could shed no more tears and begged God far into the night until she could voice no more words of want.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Her cheeks hot from crying, Belle met String’s questioning gaze. “He’s worse,” she said. “He has no fever, but he’s warm. I’ve been placing cold compresses on his face.”

  String patted her shoulder and helped her rise from the hard-backed chair she had been sitting on for three hours. “Let’s pace,” he said, a kind and gentle expression on his weathered face. They paced together within the confines of the small room.

  “You shouldn’t have sat so still, ma’am. The captain would never have missed you while you got up and walked a bit.”

  Pain and worry must have etched the features of her face, because S
tring flashed her a winning smile.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know yet about the captain. He’s goin’ to be just fine, you watch and see. A tough, old crow he is, though not as old as he is tough.” String gave Belle a conspiratorial wink. “Mark my words, the captain will make it. He’ll pull through.”

  “I hope you’re right, String,” she said, wishing all the while that she could believe him. Seasoned enough on the subject of death to know that nasty-gray skin color seldom lied, she answered, “Time will tell.” With a rush of emotion, she blurted out, “Oh, String, you don’t understand.” Grasping the skinny man’s hands, she squeezed until he winced. “You just don’t know.” Her words almost lodged in her throat. “I saw my mother and my husband die, and they had that same cold, gray pallor.” She stopped to catch her breath before rushing on. “String, I don’t think I can bear to see another person die.” Looking away from his lined face, she stared at the clean and shiny wooden floors of the hotel.

  He disengaged himself from her grip and tilted her face up. “Settle down, little lady. Like I said, the captain’s too tough to die.” He winked at her again. “Anybody who’s that rude and insufferable has got to live if only to make a green-eyed woman miserable.”

  Mastering a smile for the trader’s good friend, she thanked him for the comfort he had given her and realized he did not have to do that, especially after she had insulted his captain. Deciding that Trader Jake couldn’t be all bad if he managed to keep a good and resourceful friend like String, she allowed her pacing partner to usher her from the sick room.

  “Get some sleep, ma’am, while it’s still dark outside.”

  When she hesitated, he patted her shoulder. “I promise to let you know when my captain is better.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at String’s confidence and his absolute refusal that his captain would be anything other than well.

  After tiptoeing into her hotel room, she placed a kiss on the sleeping Johnathan before she tumbled onto the feather bed, too tired to remove her clothes and boots. “Bless us all, please God,” she said and allowed an exhausted slumber to claim her.

  The sun had already climbed high in a clear sky when Belle woke the next morning. Surprised at her sound sleep, she had not heard Johnathan wake or anyone coming into her room to take the babe away to care for him. After stripping off her clothes and washing, she dressed for a new day and joined the others.

  “How is Trader Jake?”

  “There’s been no change,” Mr. Burcham said.

  Upon greeting the rest of the Burchams and finding a cheerful Johnathan being entertained by the boys, Belle turned her attention to the task of quieting the rumblings of her empty stomach. Enticing aromas led her to the heavily-laden sideboard where breakfast fare waited. Helping herself to thin strips of tender venison and eggs cooked with soft yolks and edges made crisp by frying in lard, she slathered fresh-churned butter and honeycomb on beaten biscuits. Although not much of a coffee drinker, she poured a cup of steaming coffee that smelled too good to pass up. She knew the coffee beans were fresh, because everyone in the area had run out and waited on Trader Jake’s ship to bring in a new supply.

  A loud voice, interrupting her meal, came from the room where Trader Jake lay. It sounded like he was yelling over and over, “Don’t let go. Don’t let go.”

  Belle hurried to his bedside where Catherine Atkins held him down until he quieted. Although he now appeared calm and peaceful, as if in slumber, the injured man lay unconscious, his condition still grave.

  “Trader Jake keeps drifting in and out of consciousness,” Catherine said. “I can’t tell for sure if it’s the intense pain or some demon that causes him to wake and thrash about so. He’s alert for a brief time, yelling and struggling. Then, he’s passed out again.”

  Belle felt his forehead. “If he had a high fever, that could explain it, but I don’t feel any fever yet.”

  “I know, but I’m at a loss as to what else can be done for him.”

  “There’s really not much we can do except to keep him comfortable.” Belle frowned. “We have to change that dressing and look at his wound, and we’d best be doing it while he’s out so he won’t try to fight us.”

  “You’re exactly right,” Catherine said. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Hold him still if he starts thrashing around again,” she told the large woman. “And thank you for helping, Miss Atkins. If we hadn’t had your help—your strength—last night, I don’t know what we would have done.”

  Catherine waved the remark aside. “It’s nothing,” she said. “You were the one who made the difference, little lady. Your slender fingers are strong. You probed for that lead ball and maneuvered it out. I couldn’t have worked my big fingers into that wound—not that deep.”

  “Thank you, Miss Atkins.” Belle smiled. “Remember, it was a group effort. All of us, including String, helped physically while others tended Johnathan, and every one of us probably prayed.” Looking down at her hands, she splayed her fingers wide and held them up for Catherine to view.

  “See the callouses? It’s from all that quilting I’ve done over the years. Toughens up the fingers and strengthens them too, I guess.”

  Catherine laughed. “Mrs. Strong, even for a little thing, I believe you’ll do. Yes sir, you’ll do just fine.”

  “Why, thank you.” Belle bowed a polite curtsey. “But please call me Belle. Mrs. Strong makes me sound so old.”

  “Belle, it is, and I’m Catherine.” In a determined voice, she said, “Let’s work fast. This big man could wake again at any minute, and then we’d have our hands full.”

  Belle nodded and took a deep breath. “Here we go, Catherine.” With cutting shears in hand, Belle snipped away at the blood-stained bandages and dreaded what lay underneath.

  A few minutes later, String stood in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Mornin’, ladies. How’s the captain doin’?”

  Both women spoke in unison, greeting him. “Good morning to you, too.” That brought a chuckle from all three.

  “He’s doing better, I think,” Catherine assured String. “He comes to every so often and thrashes about rather wildly. Seems to be reliving the incident, if you ask me. Then, he passes out again.”

  “String,” Belle said, “since you’re here now, would you help Miss Atkins wrap his shoulder and chest again? I’ve bandaged the wound, and it looks clean. If we can keep the infection away, maybe he’ll pull through.” She paused to see how String took the news, but his face registered no change. “He has no fever yet, so his body must have cleansed that wound by so much bleeding. What we may be fighting here is if he can recover from losing so much blood.”

  “Of course he can, ma’am,” String said, his tone showing his confidence unshaken by Trader Jake’s ashen color. “Let’s wrap him back up, and soon as I eat somethin’, I’ll take a turn at sittin’ with the captain.”

  “Wrap his arm tight against his chest,” Belle reminded them. “So, he won’t pull that wound open when he thrashes about.”

  The next day included short walks, cooking, playing with Johnathan, and visiting with the newcomers. It was long past the evening meal before Belle sat with the wounded man again, and the hotel was quiet since everyone had retired to their rooms. A tallow candle burned in a brass wall sconce, illuminating the table runner in her lap. She embroidered wild roses on it in dainty outline stitches and stamens of French knots. After a while, she laid her embroidery aside to stand and move about within the confines of the sickroom. Extending her arms out wide and arching her back for a big stretch that felt so good, she murmured, “Oh, uhm, uhm, uhm.” Better now, she stepped outside the room, took several deep breaths, and strolled up and down the hallway.

  When she returned to the sick room, she noticed Jake had kicked off his covers. They lay in a heap on the floor near his bed. The bed, not his bed. With his tall frame, his feet and part of his long legs stuck out past the end of the hotel bed. He needs an oversized
bed to be comfortable. She found herself pondering what kind of bed he had and where in the world he called home.

  She felt Jake’s forehead and was relieved to find his skin cool to her touch. Bending down to pick up the bedding, she heard him murmur.

  “Emerald eyes. Vixen.”

  Stopping short at his words, she checked to see if he was awake, but he said nothing more, and his closed eyelids did not flutter. She contemplated how many vixens Trader Jake had known over the years, how many he had met in his travels. Her thoughts raged on as she wondered how many green-eyed women he might have bedded over the years.

  Belle’s hands flew to her face, which felt as hot and flushed as she expected it to be. Well, why shouldn’t it be a reddening blush? What on earth are you thinking about, woman? And even if he has bedded many women, it’s none of your concern.

  After gathering up the bedcovers, she spread them over the still man, whether sleeping or unconscious, because it was hard for her to tell. She gave herself the momentary solace that, at least, he was resting. It took a few moments before she could calm down and resume her precise needlework.

  Even in his current state of quiet repose, the sea trader’s presence was most unsettling. He was just so male. While covering his partially clothed form, she was all too aware of his masculinity, and his strong, muscular body brought forth feelings she really did not want to have. Not now, while the man lies ill, hovering between life and death. And certainly not feelings that involve a man who is so arrogant and worldly. A smile played across her lips then as she remembered the conversation about the captain that she and String shared earlier.

  Sighing, she realized how weary she felt, admitting she was more tired than she had thought possible. Closing her eyes, she reflected on how only a handful of people could have such a profound effect on one’s life. Recalling the events of the last few days, she noted how much had changed in her life since she had seen the wagons with new people coming into the settlement. “My,” she whispered, “that seems like ages ago.”