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“I’m all right, sis. No need to cry.” No criticism filled her brother’s voice, his tone soft and reassuring. “It hurts, but it’ll get better, don’t worry.”
Respect for the man’s endurance and kindness grew by the minute. Daisy marveled how he managed to maintain his composure under the circumstances. She didn’t know if she could have done the same.
Teague returned with the other kettle just as Doc arrived with Sam in tow. Bandages wrapped the banker’s entire chest and one stretched across his forehead and left eye. His mustache and whiskers looked half shorn off as if a bullet had razor-creased its way across his face.
Daisy barely caught a glimpse of the rise and fall of his chest before having to turn back to her own patient. She pressed yet another cloth against the wound. “Is Sam all right?”
Doc Thomas stood beside her now that they’d settled the banker on the second cot. “Hurting but sedated for the time being. Bruised a couple of ribs, and he won’t be blowing any bugles for a while. Nearly got one eye shot out, as you can see. You ready for me to take over here?”
“Gladly.” She rolled her shoulders, setting off a sharp reminder that her elbow had been bruised. If he’d been much longer, she would have done her best to dig out the bullet, but doctoring was not a talent she had any bragging rights to. And considering everyone else’s wounds, she had no right to complain about a bruise.
“The widow’s done a great job, Doctor,” her patient rasped.
“Good, I see you’re conscious. That’s helpful.” Looking down the bridge of his nose through the ever-sliding spectacles, Doc Thomas examined all Daisy had done. “Mighty fine work, Widow. Couldn’t have done better myself. Now let’s see the exit wound.”
He pushed the glasses up again. “You strong enough to sit up, son?”
He nodded, but Teague lent a hand.
Daisy caught the first glimpse of her rescuer’s back. No wonder he was losing so much blood. She’d been so worried about stemming the flow in front that she never considered the bullet might have exited. Had Teague noticed it when he removed the shirt and coat? Surely he would have told her if he had. Trying to handle him and take off the clothing at the same time must have blocked the sight.
“You two new to town?” Doc Thomas probed the wound. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“Fresh off the stage,” gasped the fistfighter as he flinched.
Petula stood in one corner so she couldn’t see her brother’s grimaces. “We haven’t even gotten a room yet.”
“No relatives here in town?” Doc Thomas poured some kind of liquid on two cloths and pressed them against both wounds. “Hold him still, Teague. That’s going to burn like fire, but it’ll stop much of the bleeding.”
“No relatives,” Petula finally answered.
“Just passing through,” her brother whispered through gritted teeth.
“That’s a shame.” Doc frowned, grabbing instruments to sew stitches. “I was hoping you had a place you could settle in for a few days to recuperate. You’re going to need to gain some strength before you do much else, and certainly no traveling for a while.”
He reached up and pushed his spectacles higher before dabbing the exit wound dry and beginning to stitch. “Trouble is, the boardinghouse and hotel are stocked full of people in town for the race tomorrow, so I doubt there’s a room to rent anywhere. Guess you can stay here in this bed for a couple of days, but I can’t promise your sister much more of a place to sleep other than the davenport out in the waiting room. I can’t stick around and wait on you hand and foot ’cause I’ve got more shot up like Sam here and no telling what kind of ruckus the crowd will stir up tomorrow.”
Daisy realized he was deliberately being long-winded to distract their patient.
Doc finished one side and switched to the other.
Petula spoke up. “But I don’t know how to take care of—”
“You won’t have to.” Daisy flared but quickly decided that would serve no purpose. The privileged young woman didn’t know how or didn’t want to know how a lot of things were done.
This situation was all hers and Ollie’s doing anyway. If she hadn’t left Ollie alone long enough to get a gun and hold hostages, this man would not have been shot. He and his sister wouldn’t have to be concerned about needing a place for him to recover or someone to watch over him.
Only one thing would make it right.
“You and your brother are welcome to stay at my house,” Daisy offered, setting her shoulders to the task ahead. “I’ve been expecting my sisters for a visit, but they’ve missed the last two stages so I’ve got extra rooms for now. It’s the least we owe you for the trouble we’ve caused. My cook and I will help take care of your brother.”
“Really?” Relief eased Petula’s expression. “We’d be so grateful, wouldn’t we, Bass?”
Bass? An ominous feeling raced over Daisy like a storm threatening blue-fired lightning in the sky. Surely, no two men in the world shared the same dastardly name or could possibly show up here to unsettle her.
Life couldn’t be that cruel, could it?
“Extremely grateful—” Bass nodded then seemed to think better of the painful motion “—since we stopped here just to meet with you, Widow Trumbo.”
It’s him, Daisy’s heart thundered as the storm of reality swept through her. Bass Parker had come to High Plains.
And she’d just invited the man she blamed for taking Knox away from Ollie to stay in their home.
Chapter Three (#ulink_0fa9a1fd-f7ae-5ec5-976f-b5a79b611829)
Bass Parker struggled through the pain forcing himself awake. Strange images swarmed in his brain making no sense. A small girl with a gun. A tall woman with eyes the color of warm honey and hair the shade of ripening wheat. Dressed in black.
His mind began to surrender to sleep again, but Bass shook his head trying to ward off the darkness threatening to engulf him once more. Petula, not safe! His fists connecting with another man’s body. Gunfire. Bank robbers! The child and her mother. He must protect the innocents.
Bass bolted upright as reality rushed through him. He groaned and grabbed his left shoulder, praying the burning would subside as quickly as it had blazed. The sight of his half-bandaged body assured him he had somehow survived the shoot-out, but where was Pet? Was she hurt?
He concentrated harder. Vague images of her holding his hand, riding in the back of a wagon with his head in her lap, the sound of her voice thanking someone named Teague for coming with them to the ranch, all reassured Bass that Petula was alive. But had she managed to stay out of trouble? That was the question.
Taking stock of his surroundings, Bass found himself in someone’s home and the comfort of a bed. An armoire took up most of one wall in the room and a table and chair set next to the four-poster, offering a lamp for reading. No fancy lace curtains or doilies adorned the room that contained only practical, functional furnishings.
The sheets were clean and the patchwork quilt comfortable but frayed. He’d apparently kicked the quilt off due to the oppressive heat, but whoever attended him was kind enough to leave open a window to bring in a breeze. His host was certainly thoughtful.
He strained to remember who that might be.
You can stay with us.
The widow’s generous words came back to him. He’d been stunned by her offer. Surprised at the gentle care she’d given him in tending his wound until the doctor arrived. He hadn’t expected such charity from the woman who had avoided even written contact with him previously.
Despite being shot, he adjusted his feelings about stopping at High Plains instead of just sending money and messages by way of Banker Cardwell as he’d done before.
He was especially glad he’d come since the banker and the doctor both confirmed Daisy as Knox’s true widow. He needed to find out just how long the widow had known each of them and why in ’60 Knox had introduced another woman as his wife. He hoped Knox Trumbo would not prove himself to be anything other than the hero Bass thought him, but if this was truly the man’s wife and child, there was a mystery to be solved in the matter.
Bass pushed aside the sheet that barely covered him. He wore no shirt, most likely to allow for changing the bandages easier.
But bloomers? Whose idea of a joke was this?
“Petula, I’m awake,” he announced strongly. “Come here, please. I need you.” He knew full well she wouldn’t have dared be any part of changing his clothes. Or any other man’s, despite the scandal that followed her from one end of the country to the other.
“I’m comin’ in. You nekkid, Mr. Parker?” asked an oddly familiar voice from beyond the door.
When he remembered the light-toned, Southern accent, Bass scrambled to grab the sheet and quilt. He wouldn’t put anything past a little girl who toted a gun easily, empty or not. “I’m covered. Will you tell my sister that I need to speak with her, please?”
“Can’t.” Olivia Trumbo opened the door, carrying paper, a book and a pencil. “She’s off in the barn with Teague. It’s just you and me and Mama and Myrtle in the house right now. They’re fixin’ you somethin’ to eat and they’ll be up here in a minute.”
She grabbed the chair at the small reading table and scooted it next to the bed. Plopping herself down, Olivia rested the book on her lap and the papers on top of it, then stared him square in the eye. “Ya ready?”
“For what?” Bass pulled the quilt up a little higher despite the heat. How could a child feel so intimidating?
Because she’s capable of holding men hostage. He felt as if he had his back against the wall and couldn’t make a move without shocking him or her.
The little Trumbo’s amber eyes disappeared into her upper eyelashes, as if she were asking God to intervene for her.
“For my questions,” she said with a sigh of impatience. “I told ya at the bank, I wanted to ask ya some questions. But things got a little wicked and I had to wait. Now I got to catch ya while I can or Mama will make me leave ya alone ’til ya get better. Who knows how long that’ll be?”
“Why is my sister in the barn with that man?”
“I’m supposed to be asking the questions, not you.” The child’s eyebrows knitted together.
“Answer that and I’ll answer a question for you.”
She hesitated then nodded. “Okay, Mama always says fair is fair. Your sister is learnin’ how to muck out a stall so Teague can keep him and his horse there. She only wanted to watch, but he told her she had to help if she was goin’ out there instead of helpin’ Mama. Said he’s gonna stick around here for a while to make sure Mama don’t need him to help with ya or anythin’.”
“Who is Teague?” Bass wondered if the man just offered his presence as a measure of protection or had other motivations for wanting to stay. Petula didn’t need to make male acquaintances here in High Plains until he could get back on his feet to chaperone her.
“Uh-uh. It’s my turn.” Olivia glanced down at her paper and readied her pencil. “How tall are ya countin’ them fancy boots?”
Bass reluctantly gave in to her stubbornness. “Six feet without. I never measured what I am with them on.”
“Mama would say about this much more, I’d guess.” She stretched her thumb and forefinger vertically.
Bass estimated. “About three inches?”
She nodded. “Yeah. She makes boots and stuff, so she’d know. That might do. How much money ya got?”
“Whoa there, that’s two questions for my one, and a man usually doesn’t disclose...tell...that kind of information about himself to a stranger.”
She put the book and paper on the edge of his bed and stuck the pencil through one of her braids to rest on her ear. The child stood and offered him her left hand. “You can call me Ollie. Now we ain’t strangers no more.”
Offering his hand, Bass leaned over and shook hers. “Bass Parker. Glad to meet you, miss. You can call me Bass.”
“Oh yeah,” she said when their hands released. She grabbed one edge of her overalls and curtsied. “I forgot. Mama said I have to do this when I meet somebody, but I like a good old handshake myself, don’t you?”
“I think mamas always know best.”
“Figured ya’d say that. So how ’bout it?” She grabbed her writing instruments then resumed the interview. “How much money do ya have, Bass?”
Persistent little soul. “Enough to pay for meals and board while we’re staying here.”
The child scratched down words then answered his second question. “Teague’s one of my pals. He comes and goes, but mostly he notices things. I watch him watchin’ other people. He does that real good. Says he likes to keep his eye out for bad men, so I think he must be some kinda special marshal or somethin’. He’s letting the sheriff chase the robbers this time. Somethin’ about jury’s-friction, whatever that is. I figure he’s gonna make sure the town’s safe during the races tomorrow while the sheriff and the posse’s gone.”
Ollie leaned in a little closer as though she was sharing a secret. “When I ask him about being a lawman, he says he won’t tell me I’m right and he ain’t bashful about telling me when I’m wrong. I’m sticking with it ’til I find out for sure, so he’ll see how smart I am, even if I’m only seven and a half. I got him on my for-sure list for Mama, though, if he’s a good man. And he seems pretty good so far.” She exhaled a long breath. “Whew! I ought to get two questions for that big ol’ answer.”
“So Teague is interested in your mother?” Not Petula, Bass was glad to know that. About the widow? She’d grieved more time than most did. He respected her for that. Showed love and devotion. Something Bass respected above all else.
Ollie shrugged. “He likes Mama just fine, but there ain’t no sparkin’ goin’ on. You know that kissy kind of stuff. Now, how ’bout you? Are ya good at kissin’ and do you think you’re handsome?”
Bass acted as if he was rubbing his chin in thought but he needed his hand to hide a grin. “I can answer the one and the other is none of your business, Little Friend.”
Her eyes rounded in surprise.
“I don’t discuss kissing with anyone but whoever I’m kissing and, as far as my looks go, I am not anywhere near as handsome as your daddy was.”
Her mouth gaped. “You knew my daddy? You seen him in real live person?”
Her astonishment hit Bass in the gut. He hadn’t realized Ollie had never seen her father.
Still, it made sense. Daisy must have been with child when he met Knox. Knox died after the war ended, killed in a battle by men who didn’t know a cease-fire had been agreed upon. He must have never made it to his new home in High Plains during his years of conscription. Never held his child in his arms.
Bass’s guilt worsened, twisted something deep in his heart. He owed Daisy Trumbo and Ollie much more than he realized. If only he hadn’t hired Knox, giving him the money to take his place in the war. Reasons that seemed so strong then didn’t measure up to the price the Trumbos had paid. No wonder the widow refused his help and his money. She obviously considered him, not the war, the reason Knox had lost his life. The reason Ollie had never met her father.
Full of remorse, Bass struggled to find appropriate words. Finally, he whispered, “Your daddy was a truly heroic man, Ollie. Handsome and gallant to the ladies, brave and a leader to his men. Knox won many battles. I followed all his victories in the papers, wrote him letters to say how proud I was of him. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I want to help your mother if she’ll let me.”
By doing so, he could put his guilt about the whole matter behind him and lead him and his sister to a better place. A happier path.
“Then you was his friend?”
“I’d like to think so.” Bass looked around the room, studying the furnishings. The widow had a right to be living much better than this. He could help make that happen if she’d just let him. “Do you know if there’s a stone marker on your father’s grave yet?”
“There’s a perfectly good wooden cross posted,” announced Daisy Trumbo, entering the room with a tea service, “and fresh flowers when the weather allows.”
Tall and thin, she reminded him of a stalk of wheat standing defiant to the wind, exuding a strong silent will that he suspected couldn’t be buffeted easily.
“I help clean up the grave real good every time, don’t I, Mama?” Ollie glanced up from her chair.
“You sure do, honey.”
Behind the widow, carrying another tray, followed a woman whose body was as round as it was tall. Gray hair streaked through her temples and in the chignon pinned atop her head, making her dark hair look salted. Her green eyes could have cut him, they appeared so sharp in color.
“Your money’s still in the bank where you sent it.”
The rotund woman answered what he’d really wanted to know from the widow, challenging him with a lift of double chins.
Bass waited until his hostess set her tray on the table and actually looked at him before shifting his gaze toward the interfering woman. “Is this your cook?”
“I’m Myrtle,” the angry-looking woman spoke for herself. “Cook and most everything else around here, mister. Particularly, friend and protector to the Trumbos. Daisy’s already told me what I need to know about you.”
Bass introduced himself properly anyway to both women since he’d never really officially met Daisy. “We stopped in town wanting to visit with you, Mrs. Trumbo, before continuing on to California, where we’ve sent our things. I hope you’ll change your mind about accepting the money or at least allow me to erect a memorial to Knox in the town square. I’m sure you’d like to see that he has a more permanent marker for his grave. I won’t feel I’ve done him justice until I take that worry off your mind.”
“You should have thought about that when you hired him to take your place fighting.” The cook glared at Bass. “She didn’t want your coward’s money then, she sure doesn’t now.”
“Now, Myrtie.” Daisy held up one palm as if to ward off her cook’s fierce defense. “Why don’t you set your tray down and go about your duties. I’ll feed our guest so he’ll get some rest and be able to get on his way sooner.”
That was the politest way Bass had ever been told neither he nor his money were welcome, but he was determined to put his guilt at rest. To convince her that she should accept his offerings. His stomach rumbled as he got a whiff of something that smelled wonderful.
