Excusing herself, she scurried down the hall, sliding on the plank floor as she turned the corner. "Come quick, Miss Vee. I need your help."
"Heavens," Miss Vee said, clutching her chest. "What is it? You’re as pale as a haint."
"Good Samaritans have come bearing an injured man. They’ve asked for our help."
Mr. McRae yanked his napkin from around his neck. "Do you know them?"
She shook her head. "Strangers traveling the Trace. I’ve never seen them before."
He seemed edgy. "It might be a trick."
"I’m certain it’s not. They found the old man alongside the road a few miles from here. He’s hurt badly. A nasty blow to the head."
Mr. McRae’s eyes rounded. "An old man?"
She nodded. "Quite elderly, I believe. He’s white-haired and toothless as a babe."
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
F ear 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
"Heavens," Miss Vee said, clutching her chest. "What is it? You’re as pale as a haint."
"Good Samaritans have come bearing an injured man. They’ve asked for our help."
Mr. McRae yanked his napkin from around his neck. "Do you know them?"
She shook her head. "Strangers traveling the Trace. I’ve never seen them before."
He seemed edgy. "It might be a trick."
"I’m certain it’s not. They found the old man alongside the road a few miles from here. He’s hurt badly. A nasty blow to the head."
Mr. McRae’s eyes rounded. "An old man?"
She nodded. "Quite elderly, I believe. He’s white-haired and toothless as a babe."
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
F ear 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
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