Married by Christmas. Karen Kirst
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got Daisy—” she pushed her hood back, smiling triumphantly “—and the horse is all settled in.”
Rebecca belatedly realized she hadn’t removed her own cape. Or eaten. Or had her usual bracing coffee. Quickly covering him, she remarked, “You must be starving. How about a glass of warm milk and toast with cheese? I need to get broth started for our visitor.”
“You make it sound like he’s a stranger.” Her nose crumpled. She replaced the gun on its hooks above the mantel. “Don’t you remember how he used to come here with Adam? He’d play any game I asked, even dolls. Not even Adam would do that.”
Rebecca deflected the hurtful reminder of happier times, when the three of them—Caleb, Adam and her—were friends. “That was a long time ago.”
Removing the loaf of bread she’d made yesterday from the pie safe, she set it on the work surface and grabbed a knife, slicing off two thick pieces and placing them in a pan. Behind her, Amy wandered closer to the bed.
“How bad is he?”
Glancing over her shoulder, Rebecca caught the worry flashing in wide eyes. How to phrase it? Her younger sister was practical-minded and perceptive. The instinct to protect her—stirred to life the day their parents passed away and Rebecca assumed full responsibility—warred with the need to prepare her for the worst.
“I’m not a doctor, so it’s difficult to hazard a guess.” Pouring the heated milk into a mug, she sighed. “I’ll be honest, Amy, it could go either way.”
“He’s shivering.” Her frown deepened. “Can we say a prayer for him?”
She hauled in a startled breath. Pray? For Caleb? After he’d destroyed her chance at happiness? If not for his recklessness, she’d be married to her childhood sweetheart by now. Might’ve even had a child of her own. The sting of shattered dreams left her floundering for an appropriate response. She refused to allow her problems to taint Amy’s outlook on life.
“I, uh—” Sliding her wavy, dark hair behind her shoulders, she stepped haltingly toward the bed. “Would you mind praying? I don’t think I can gather my thoughts right now.”
While Amy softly uttered words of petition, Rebecca studied Caleb’s profile. When they were teens, his boyish good looks and fun-loving manner had drawn girls like ants to a picnic. There was no sign of that boy now. Aloof and cynical, the events of the past two years were etched into his severe features.
She closed her eyes. Why, God? Why did You bring him here to me, of all people? How can You ask this of me?
“We won’t be able to fetch Doc Owens anytime soon, will we?”
Beyond the window glass, clouds yet dumped snow at a steady rate. Town was a good mile and a half away. “I’m afraid we can’t risk it.” Returning to the kitchen to finish readying breakfast, she said, “We’ll wait and see how things look tomorrow.”
But it soon became clear the storm had stalled over their quaint cove, and by lunchtime, the snow had surpassed the third fence rung. No way could Toby, her frail, aging horse, venture out into that. They were stuck.
The notion troubled her. Throughout the morning, Caleb had fretted off and on, mumbling unintelligible things, alternating between sweating and shivering. Once he’d even tried to sit up, only to cry out in agony.
With Amy in Rebecca’s bedroom writing in her diary, she tackled the task of feeding him. Placing a bowl of tepid vegetable broth on the bedside table, she scooted one of the heavy walnut dining chairs over and sat down, reluctant to stir him. He needed sustenance, however. And something for pain.
“Caleb?”
His head shifted in her direction, damp hair sliding over one black brow. How she despised the unexpected vulnerability cloaking him and the pull it had on her. She always had harbored soft spots for those in need, be it animal or human, deserving or no.
“I’ve brought you some broth.” She waited, hands clasped tightly in her lap, fingers itching to smooth his furrowed brow.
His eyes fluttered open, the severe discomfort in the brown depths—which had taken on the hue of the burnt-umber watercolor cake in her art chest—a kick in the gut. What had happened out there? An accident? Or was he in some kind of trouble?
“Drink,” he pushed past dry, cracked lips.
“First let me prop you up with another pillow.” Stretching across him, she snagged an extra and carefully wedged it beneath the first one. “There.”
As she fed him several spoons of the fragrant liquid, his dark gaze never wavered from her face, unnerving her. It took all her concentration to hold her hand steady.
“Enough.” He turned his face away.
He’d consumed less than half of the bowl’s contents. Not much considering his size. Concern slithered through her. Standing, she smoothed the layered quilts over his chest and shoulders. “Are you warm enough?”
He nodded without looking at her, his gaze glued to the log wall adorned with Amy’s bunches of dried flowers and a single canvas—a floral composition Rebecca had painted many years ago. Amy loved flowers, and Rebecca enjoyed capturing their likeness with her brush. Not as much as birds, though, as evidenced by the paintings cramming the remaining walls.
“I have laudanum to help with the pain. Let me get it for you.”
Cool fingers closed over her wrist. She yelped. Jerked away from his touch.
“How did I get here?” His voice was sandpaper rough.
Rebecca stepped out of reach. “My dog found you.”
“And Rebel?”
“Your horse is fine.”
After breakfast, she’d gone out to the barn and groomed him, the earlier recognition blossoming into full remembrance. Caleb had purchased the fine animal from a farmer on the outskirts of Gatlinburg. Thrilled at the acquisition, he and Adam had brought him over for her to see. Rebel. A fitting name for an owner who’d continually flouted common sense, flying in the face of danger without a thought to the repercussions.
Images of another man lying injured in a bed, his life forever changed because of Caleb’s actions, pushed into her mind. Oh, Adam, why couldn’t you have stayed? Given us a chance?
“You weigh a ton, by the way,” she snapped, frustrated at the memories Caleb’s presence resurrected. “Amy and I were barely able to get you inside. What happened to you? And why were you on my property?”
He blanched. “I can’t stay here.” He shoved the covers off, attempted to sit up.
Surprised, Rebecca placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing? You’re gonna aggravate your wound.”
He weaved to the side, too weak to put up much of a fight. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. “You don’t understand. Need to leave. Now.”
“Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better,” she muttered, “but you’re not fit to walk across this room, let alone venture out into the storm.” Urging him to lie back, she checked his wound’s wrapping. No sign of fresh blood. Good. Covering him once more, she propped her hands on her hips and assumed her no-nonsense voice. “No more trying to get out of bed, do you hear me, Caleb O’Malley?”
He peered up at her through heavy-lidded, pain-glazed eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Instinctively, she reached out a hand to comfort him, at the last minute curling her fingers into a fist and dropping it to her side. Hang her caramel-soft, too-sensitive heart! How was she supposed to remain impassive to this man’s suffering?
I used to imagine it, though. Caleb O’Malley getting his just deserts. Suffering the way he made me suffer.
She winced, shame flooding her. Not like this. There was no satisfaction in this.
That