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Authors: Marcia Gruver
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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
"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
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