Jake's Angel. Nicole Foster
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into a small basket by the stove. “Besides, there aren’t that many creatures here.”
“A lizard, a desert rat, a very ugly squirrel, a raven with the tongue of the devil, and now—this! Soon we will have no room for your human orphans.”
“Oh, we’ll find room. And you’ll do as you always do with our guests, slip treats to each and every creature and human when you think no one is looking.” Isabel smiled at Esme’s scowl, then gave her grandmother a quick hug, kissing her cheek. The old woman huffed a bit, making a show of despising any kind of fuss over her, but Isabel saw the satisfied twinkle in her eyes.
“I could put her in Mr. Davis’s room,” she teased Esme, glancing at the roadrunner. “His arm has healed and he told me this morning he’s moving out today to try his luck in Nevada.” Isabel sighed then, her tone losing its humor. “I suppose it means looking for another boarder.”
Esme shrugged. “It will not be difficult. Most of the prospectors would rather have something more than a bedroll and camp food. And ay, that food! I would as soon as eat boiled owls and rat dung than the poison that man over at Lone Gulch mine who calls himself a cook prepares!”
“Well, you look as if you’re preparing for a feast here.”
Isabel waved a hand at the disarray of pots, serving vessels and utensils, various piles of half-readied corn and beans, and raw slabs of goat meat. A chaos of smells permeated the long, narrow room, from the sweet richness of chocolate, to the sharp burn of red and green chilies, combined with various scents of odd and familiar herbs.
Esme helped with the cooking for the family and the boarders as far as she was still able. But when she was angry or upset she attacked the kitchen with a vengeance, soothing her frayed temper by turning out large elaborate meals or concocting one of her seemingly endless potions or remedies.
Glancing at her grandmother, Isabel saw the expression in Esme’s heavy-lidded eyes was shuttered, giving her her usual air of hoarding a great secret. Esme walked over to the black monstrosity of a stove and began vigorously stirring a pot of soup.
“Sheriff Reed, he comes here today to tell me about some robberies nearby. As close as the La Belle, Anchor and Midnight City mines he says. These robberies…” Esme drew a long breath. She turned from her cooking to look at Isabel, her face softening with concern. “The sheriff says they remind him of that man you knew as a girl.”
Isabel shook her head, glancing away, not willing to see the questions in Esme’s eyes. “Of course it isn’t him. It’s been so long, why would he ever come back here?”
“My child, we have all heard the stories that most of the gold he stole from the mining camps around Taos County is hidden in the mountains near here.” Esme hesitated then added, “And of course he always told everyone he cared for you, although I could never believe it of a man like that.”
“Jerico only cared for himself,” Isabel said, knowing it wasn’t quite the truth. She and Jerico Grey had been childhood friends, and for a brief time Isabel imagined she loved him. It had been fleeting, a foolish feeling when she was still a girl and smitten with the wild, wicked attraction of an older boy who’d called her beautiful and promised her paradise.
Except Jerico Grey’s idea of paradise was bought and paid for with someone else’s gold.
“He would never come back here,” Isabel said again, as much to reassure herself as her grandmother.
“Ah, well, I am sure you are right. Let us forget this foolishness. Cal Reed is growing old and loco. He should not be telling tales about robbers and ghosts of the past.”
“I’m sure he was not telling tales. Cal knows his business. But you’re right. We should forget it. I’ll fix us some tea, shall I? One of your special mixes. And Trouble tells me you made cookies, too. Cinnamon, I hope.”
“Cinnamon for you, and jam tarts for the boys. I had extra pastry that had to be used,” Esme added quickly when Isabel smiled knowingly. “Cinnamon is very soothing, too. Just the thing for you, pepita.”
The endearment, a relic from her childhood, only served to show Isabel how worried her grandmother was about the possibility of Jerico Grey touching their lives again. Shaking off a cold touch of uneasiness, she turned to warm the kettle and find the cups when Chessie, one of the girls from Elish Dodd’s saloon, came rushing in, breathless, loudly banging the door behind her.
“Isabel, you have to come now. There’s a man at the Silver Rose who wants a doctor!”
Isabel hid a smile and with a few gentle questions managed to elicit the facts that one of Chessie’s would-be customers had been shot and needed healing. Leaving her grandmother to her frenzy of cooking, Isabel gathered up her basket of remedies and other supplies. “All right, Chessie, let’s go see what the damage is.”
As they approached the Silver Rose, Chessie paused. “Maybe you better come in the back door.” The young woman slid a sideways glance at Isabel, as if not sure if it was a good idea to suggest such a thing.
Watching the shifting expressions on Chessie’s face, Isabel easily read her thoughts. She suppressed a smile, knowing that Chessie, like some, thought she practiced some form of witchery passed down from her Spanish ancestors. It would be so easy to impress Chessie—a dark drape of shawl over her head, a sprinkle of powder and a few chanted words and Chessie would believe Isabel could raise the dead—or at least charm one of Chessie’s admirers into an unlikely marriage.
On the other hand, Isabel knew Chessie truly fretted over anyone in trouble and was only trying to help in sneaking her up the back stairs so she could help a wounded man.
“Perhaps the back stairs would be best,” Isabel said, making her voice and smile kind.
Chessie’s face relaxed, and Isabel smiled to herself.
“There’s a lot of blood,” Chessie said, as she led the way to the second-floor rooms.
“Is there? It’s all right, I’ve seen it before. Let’s just hope your friend isn’t faint from it.”
Chessie stopped in front of the door at the farthest end of the hallway and looked at Isabel, biting her lower lip. “You ought to know something. He ain’t gonna be too glad to see you. He asked me to get the doctor, but I knew you’d be better for him and besides I couldn’t get somebody who ain’t here. I hope you won’t mind nothin’ he says. He looks like the kind that’s always one step from the noose, but he ain’t gettin’ around so good right now so I don’t think he’ll be too much trouble.”
How comforting, Isabel thought, as she followed Chessie into the room.
Chessie’s doubtful reassurance didn’t improve the picture she had so far of this reluctant patient of hers. He was probably like every other man she’d met who used a gun to make a living, on one side of the law or the other. In the New Mexico high country it was hard to tell the difference between the two, most of the time anyway. But it didn’t matter to her. She was here to heal his body, not his soul.
She did wonder, though, what Chessie had told him about her. Heaven knows, she thought, probably that I intend to heal him with chants and spells and boiled bat dung. And won’t that impress him.
A foul combination of whiskey, blood and sweat assaulted Isabel the moment she stepped inside. If nothing else, Chessie’s friend needed a bath and a night to become sober.
“Mister, it’s me,” Chessie called out. “You’ll be feelin’ yourself again soon, don’t worry. I got just the person you need.”
Something between a grumble and a growl answered her. “I hope you found a doctor.”
“Oh, no, I told you I couldn’t do that. I brought the witch.”
Chapter Two
Isabel glanced heavenward and shook her head. “Chessie—”