Bandit's Hope Page 6

  Miss Vee shoved back her chair. "I’ll find clean cloths for bandages. Mariah, go heat some water. Dicey, take the wagon and find a doctor."

  Dicey worried the hem of her apron. "Ride clear to Canton by myself?"

  "Of course not. We need him now, not sometime tomorrow. Fetch Tobias Jones."

  "That ol’ Injun healer?"

  "Yes."

  "No’m, Miss Vee! All his chantin’ and dancin’ make me feel all-overish. I’m sorely ’fraid of Tobias Jones."

  Miss Vee caught her arm and urged her forward. "Be more scared of me. Now get on with you, and no dawdling."

  "I’ll put the water on then pack provisions for those nice men in the parlor," Mariah said. "They’re exhausted and damp from the rain, but they want to press on."

  She followed Miss Vee out, pausing under the arched doorway to glance curiously at Mr. McRae. Judging by his sagging jaw and sickly pallor, the stomach bloat they’d warned him of had hit him full force.

  SEVEN

  Fear nailed Tiller to the chair.

  The flurry of clicking heels and swishing skirts finally swept from the room, plunging him in silence. Dread climbed up his throat and swirled over his head like rushing water. He struggled to draw a breath.

  The helplessness was the same he felt while lurking in the shadows of the Trace without the protection of his gang. The heavy cloak of misdeeds weighed him down and sin crouched on his shoulders. He was tired of running but too scared of what would happen if he stopped.

  Miss Bell ducked her head around the corner. "Come quick. We need you."

  Stunned, Tiller’s head shot up, but she had gone.

  Panic gripped his gut. How could he traipse down the hall, stroll into the room, and say, "How do," to the man he’d helped put there? Yet how could he refuse?

  At best, he’d brand Tiller a coward in front of the women—unless he’d figured out Tiller’s part in the robbery. Either possibility meant trouble.

  Before he could cipher what to do, Miss Bell rushed past and hurried into the kitchen, quickly returning with a basin of water. She paused to stare. "Are you just going to sit there?"

  For as long as it takes, he thought. Nevertheless, his traitorous legs straightened, bringing him upright. Gritting his teeth, he followed her to his doom.

  Movement inside the parlor caught his eye, and he glanced inside.

  Four scruffy men, as jittery as fleas on a hairless dog, hovered near the fire. One at a time their hollow, weary eyes rose to his.

  Satisfied he didn’t know them, Tiller nodded and stepped across the hall to the guest room. Lingering outside the door, he watched the women tend to the huddled lump on the bed.

  Miss Bell placed the pan of hot water on the bedside table. Miss Vee dipped a cloth, wrung it out, and bent over her patient. Tiller winced when she returned it to the water dark with blood.

  Glancing up, Miss Bell caught his eye. "Come in, Mr. McRae," she said in a soft voice. "It’s all right. You won’t disturb him. I’m afraid he’s delirious. Poor man doesn’t even know we’re here."

  Tiller’s knees sank with relief. Awed by a streak of luck or grace he didn’t deserve, he eased into the room. "How can I help?"

  "I’ve brought down one of my father’s old nightshirts." She blushed ruby red and stared a hole in the floor. "Once we get his wound bandaged, we’re going to need you to undress him."

  "I’ll help," Miss Vee announced. "After raising nine brothers and a husband, he can’t have much I haven’t seen before." She dunked the gory rag and squeezed it out again. "Mariah, go assist those pitiful souls in the parlor. Tiller and I will take care of this one."

  Gathering her skirts, Miss Bell dashed for the door.

  "Bring fresh water when you finish with them," Miss Vee called. "We’ll need it clean to sponge him off."

  Miss Bell returned and lifted the soiled container. "I’ll do it now, so you can get him settled."

  By the time she got back, Tiller had the old man shucked down to his long underwear.

  Rosy-cheeked again, she stopped outside the door.

  He hurried over, and their eyes met over the steaming basin.

  "I want to thank you, Mr. McRae."

  "Tiller."

  She swallowed delicately. "Tiller. It’s very kind of you to help. I realize you don’t have to."

  "It’s my pleasure, ma’am."

  She smiled stiffly and lowered her eyes. "I suppose you may call me Mariah … if you’d like."

  He studied her sweeping lashes. "I’d like it very much."

  Miss Vee bellowed for the pan.

  They jumped apart, sloshing water over Mariah’s hands.

  Grinning, Tiller took the basin and hurried to set it beside the bed. When he looked toward the threshold again, she was gone.

  He worked beside Miss Vee for the next half hour, ministering to their patient. They washed him head to toe, wrestled him into the long white nightshirt, and redressed his seeping wound.

  Caring for him soothed Tiller’s aching conscience a little, but the gray, lifeless face against the pillow seared his guilty heart.

  Miss Vee pressed her palm to the ashen forehead then straightened with a tight smile. "No fever. That’s a blessing, but we sure need the doctor. I can’t imagine what’s keeping Dicey with Tobias." She rested her hands on her hips. "Where did Mariah run off to?"

  Miss Vee wasn’t the only one who missed Mariah’s company. She ducked in once to say she’d aided the strangers and sent them on their way, but hadn’t returned since.

  Pointing to the corner, Miss Vee patted his back. "Pull up that chair and sit with him whilst I go scout things out."

  She left the room, and Tiller hauled the chair close to the bed—just not too close. Sitting stiff as a plank, he gripped his knees and studied the injured man’s face.

  His bushy brows bunched in sleep, and his toothless mouth gaped as if to cry out, but no sound came. Tiller wondered if he suffered much pain.

  It squeezed his chest to watch, so he turned his attention to the shuttered window. Between the slats, the moon shone from a puddle on the ground, and no raindrops stirred the bright reflection. The storm had passed.

  Mariah’s pleasing face tugged at his thoughts. In all his rambling years, he’d seen a passel of pretty gals—fetching saloon girls, shopkeepers’ daughters, and the painted ladies down on Silver Street in Natchez, crooking their red-tipped fingers from the shadows as he passed.

  Mariah was beautiful in a different way, from inky black hair piled on her head to hot coffee glances from under sleepy lashes. She seemed wild in the way of a broken stallion, subdued but never tamed.

  "Where am I, boy?"

  The shock jerked Tiller to his feet.

  Bleary eyes studied him from the bed. "Are you folks caring for me?"

  Feigning a sudden itch, Tiller’s hand shot up to cover his face. His other hand groped for his head, but without his hat, he couldn’t hide his auburn hair. "Y–yes, sir. We are."

  The old fellow nodded then winced and probed his bandages with shaky fingers. "I’m hurt bad?"

  Tiller set the chair out of his way and backed up several steps. "Not sure yet. We’re waiting for the doc."

  The man drifted in and out, mumbling garbled words.

  Anxious to know whether he was making sense or talking out of his head, Tiller walked to the bed and leaned over.

  The wrinkled eyelids shot open, jolting Tiller’s heart. The stranger pointed a bony finger, his watery gaze locked on Tiller’s face.

  Dread pitched his stomach. Now would come the anger. The accusation. A fast run to the door and a frantic ride out.

  "Thank ye for helping me, son. I’m much obliged." Spent, his hand fell to the mattress, and his head lolled to the side, out like a candle in a draft.

  Relief spreading warmth through his limbs, Tiller slumped in the chair. The old man didn’t remember him. Not this time. Would that change when his head cleared?

  Tiller should run, no doubt
about it. Roll up his pack, roust his horse, and get far away as fast as he could ride. So why couldn’t he bring himself to move?

  Did he want to be caught? With his secret in the open, the threat of discovery wouldn’t loom like a guillotine blade.

  He scrubbed his face with his hands then laced his trembling fingers behind his head. What kind of game was he playing, gambling with his life?

  A need he didn’t understand held him within the comforting walls of Bell’s Inn. Something greater than common sense, stronger than fear. He glanced at his pale face in the dressing table mirror. Something, Tiller boy, or someone?

  Either way, he wasn’t ready to saddle up and hit the long, lonely road outside. Until the injured traveler sat up in bed and called him out, Tiller had no plans to leave.

  Mariah sprawled across her bed and sobbed. The sweet-faced old gentleman lying wounded downstairs stirred painful memories of her father writhing in pain for weeks.

  She sent for Dr. Moony against Father’s wishes when a terrible cough began to wrack his thinning frame. Doc slipped from the room after the examination, peered into Mariah’s soul, and shook his head. He told her to allow Father his pipe. It wouldn’t matter.

  Helpless, she stood by and watched as the burly man who raised her disappeared.

  Clenching her fist, she gave her pillow a vicious whack. His death was a waste! The cruel disease an unwelcome guest stealing him pound by shocking pound, breath by gasping breath.

  Mariah barely had time to accept his illness before he was gone. She wasn’t ready to lose him.

  Startled, she sat up in bed, surprised she hadn’t thought of it sooner. Before long, Doc would ride out from Canton to check on Father’s condition. Dr. Moony would never believe the story she’d told Miss Vee.

  Gripping her face, Mariah lay back in bed to figure a way out of her latest predicament. Except she couldn’t think straight with her heart and mind overflowing with memories.

  No matter, she’d work out something before the doctor came nosing around. Whatever the cost, she’d find a way to keep Father’s death a secret for as long as possible.

  "Tobias is here," Miss Vee called through her door.

  Wiping her eyes, Mariah sat up and scooted off the bed. She opened the door, surprised to find Miss Vee still there.

  Her penciled brows arched. "I’m getting a little concerned about you, honey. It’s not like you to hole up in your room."

  Evidently, her efforts to hide her heartache were still lacking. "I’m fine. Just a little tired tonight, I suppose."

  Miss Vee frowned. "You said the same thing earlier." She reached to cup Mariah’s cheek. "No fever. Still, you must be coming down with something. I could pack for a trip to Natchez in the bags under your eyes." She peered closer. "Sugar, have you been crying?"

  Ducking her head, Mariah eased from her grasp. "We’d best get downstairs. If we don’t watch him, Tobias will bust up the headboard for kindling and build a ceremonial fire at the foot of the bed."

  Miss Vee caught her hand as she passed. "A girl needs her mama, and I know how much you miss yours." Her smile brimmed with compassion. "If there’s anything you need to talk about, I’m a good listener."

  Guilt an elephant on her chest, Mariah squeezed her fingers. "I’m grateful."

  "Grateful for what? I love you like you’re my own." Longing softened Miss Vee’s features, subtracting years from her eager face. "I know your father might never want me, considering he’s so partial to slender women." She sighed. "After all, your mother was as thin as a twelve-year-old boy, and I’ve been plump all my life." She blushed slightly. "I’m a silly old woman. I shouldn’t be saying such things to you."

  Mariah squirmed inside but patted her hand. "It’s all right."

  "No, it’s not, but what I’m trying to say is this—if John Coffee ever did take a shine to me, if we were to actually get married, I’d be honored to call you my daughter." She ducked her head and drew in her shoulders. "That is, if you didn’t mind."

  Bile rose in Mariah’s throat. She swallowed and forced an answer. "You know I wouldn’t mind."

  "Really?" Miss Vee lit up, and a brilliant smile replaced the uncertain set of her lips. "Well, that means so much. God chose not to bless me with a child of my own, but I’ve always wanted a daughter. Of course, I’d never be able to take Minti’s place." She sighed so hard she shuddered. "Not for either of you." Her haunted gaze swept the room in a wide arc from floor to ceiling. "I still feel her presence in this place. In every board, every nail, the very air we breathe."

  "The inn was such a large part of who Mother was."

  She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "And she’ll always be part of the inn."

  "Miss Vee? Miss Bell? Anybody?"

  With a shared look of surprise, they hurried from the room and rushed to the head of the stairs.

  Tiller stared up from the bottom step. A spate of freckles Mariah hadn’t noticed before stood out on his whitewashed face. "I think you ladies might want to come down here."

  Mariah took the stairs two at a time. Respectability be hanged. Tobias Jones was in her house.

  Behind her, Miss Vee moaned. "What is it, son?"

  Tiller shook his head. "I can’t rightly say. I’ve never seen anything like it before."

  It was all Mariah needed to hear. Clutching her skirts, she sprinted for the sickroom.

  EIGHT

  Mariah spun out of the parlor and across the hall, lurching to a stop outside the guest room. She stared at the scene before her, dumbstruck.

  Their patient, as bare as the day his mother bore him except for a sheet draped over his middle, sprawled on the floor in front of a blazing hearth. His skinny arms were stretched out to the sides. His pasty legs and knobby knees were on display.

  The Choctaw healer knelt at his side with puckered lips pressed to his forehead like a child drawing juice from a lemon.

  Too shocked to look away, Mariah found her voice. "Stop it this instant."

  Ignoring her, Tobias lifted his mouth and spat in his cupped palm, then gracefully rose and shook an unseen substance off his hand into the fire. A bright red mark appeared on the old man’s brow.

  Mariah had heard of the Indian practice of dry cupping, but she’d never witnessed the procedure. Most felt it a silly superstition, with no real power to heal. After seeing it in action, she tended to agree.

  "We brought you here to care for his injury. To clean it and apply healing herbs." She waved her hand over the scene. "Not for all this nonsense."

  "Sucking near the wound draws out the poison."

  "So will a poultice of cotton-tree root."

  Tobias’s glare held scorn. "Old way better."

  Mariah cautiously approached the poor soul stretched out on the floor. Moisture beaded his top lip and pooled in the hollow of his chest. "Why is he sweating so?"

  "China root tea. To cleanse from isht abeka." Tobias nodded firmly. "Infection," he repeated as if she hadn’t understood him the first time.

  She frowned. "How’d you get it down him?"

  He crossed his arms, his scowl deepening.

  She’d questioned his skill, insulting him. Her shoulders drooped. "All right. Never mind."

  Movement from the corner startled her. Tobias’s sons, Justin and Christopher, stood in the shadows, trying in vain to hide their amusement.

  Recalling what Miss Vee said about her black-ringed eyes, Mariah lowered her head and touched her burning face with her fingertips.

  Tiller pushed past and stood over the man on the floor. "What’s he done to Mr. Gooch?"

  Mariah’s head came around. "You know him?"

  Tiller blanched like beans in hot water. "Just his name."

  "But, how?"

  "He, um … came to for a minute. Thanked me for taking care of him. Before he passed out again, he said his name. Otis, I think it was." He nodded and backed toward the corner. "Otis Gooch."

  Miss Vee swept inside and took command. "Whatever his
name, with him sweating like this, we should cover him. He’ll catch a draft." She motioned to the younger men. "Help me get him back in bed."

  Grinning and casting furtive glances in Mariah’s direction, Chris and Justin took Mr. Gooch’s arms. Tiller hoisted his legs. They carried him with ease and gently placed him against the pillows.

  Miss Vee hustled to his side with a dry towel to wipe his face. "He’ll stink now. After all the care we took to get him washed."

  Tobias stood his ground in front of the fireplace, mumbling under his breath. As always, despite his irritation, he watched Miss Vee closely from under veiled lids.

  Mariah propped her fisted hands at her waist. "Are you quite finished?"

  He grunted. "All done. He’ll be better now."

  She shot him a doubtful look. "What do I owe you?" "Corn bread."

  She tilted her head. "Did you say corn bread?" He nodded. "Whole pan. Butter, too. Big tub."

  Miss Vee paused from tucking the quilt under Mr. Gooch’s chin. "See, Tiller. I told you this girl was known for her cooking."

  Mariah sighed. "I don’t have any corn bread prepared, and it’s too late to start. Can you come for it tomorrow?"

  Tobias quirked his mouth then gave her a solemn nod. "By noon. No later. My boys will fetch it."

  "I’ll have it ready."

  The Jones men filed past her out of the room. Chris winked as he passed, and Justin smiled and touched her arm, both so handsome up close her toes curled.

  Cursing her twisted fate, she groaned inside, wishing with all her might that they weren’t Choctaw.

  Tiller’s brows lifted. Tilting his head, he took another look to be certain of what he’d seen.

  Mariah stood in a trance, ogling the cumbersome broad backs and prissy long hair of the departing braves. She watched them go, the dreamy look turning to pouted lips and an angry scowl.

  Tiller cleared his throat. "Mariah?"

  Her shoulders twitched and she spun. "Yes? I’m sorry."

  He smirked. "Forgive me for interrupting your musings."

  A crimson blush swept up from her collar. "Not at all. I was just—"