Jake's Angel

“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—”

“Dammit, I told you to bring me a doctor.”

The man lying on the bed half rose up on one elbow and looked Isabel over as if he expected her to have a broomstick and a peaked hat.

“She doesn’t look like a witch,” he said, falling back, one forearm covering his eyes. “She looks like a skinny woman carrying a basket who’d rather be picking flowers than traipsing around a whorehouse. Now, where the hell is the doctor?”

Isabel brushed by Chessie to the side of the bed. “There’s no doctor and I’m not a witch, but if it pleases you, I can mutter a few chants and wave feathers over your head. Although no matter what I do, I’m probably wasting my time since you’ll just walk out of here and get yourself shot up again.”

She set her basket on the rickety oak nightstand next to a nearly empty whiskey bottle, noticing with a sidelong glance the gun belt he’d draped over the bedpost within hand’s reach. Probably another gambler or gunslinger whose luck went sour over a card game or a woman. Deliberately ignoring the guns, she looked at him, appraising him with a long up and down gaze.

He was a big man, and older than she expected, mid-thirties she guessed, with a harshness around his eyes and mouth that looked permanently ingrained by experience and the elements. Hard lines shaped his face and body, giving her the impression there was no flesh to him, only tough brown skin covering honed muscle and bone.

The yellow wash of lamp glow did nothing to dispel the darkness of him. From his unkempt hair and beard to the heavy black denim and leather of his clothing to the look in the clouded eyes that glared at her when he pulled his arm back, nothing about him suggested he could or should be approached.

Isabel found herself holding her breath, staving off the chill his very presence seemed to evoke.

A pain-ridden groan escaped his throat. His dark brows drew together. “What are you still doing here? I don’t want any crazy woman cutting me.”

“I suppose you would rather bleed to death.” Isabel ignored the gathering storm on his face and instead focused on the task at hand. She bent to gently pull away one end of the bloody bandanna. “Of course, if you have the strength, you may live long enough to die of lead poisoning.”

His mind dulled by Elish’s whiskey and two days’ loss of blood, Jake tried to think of a nasty retort that would send her away. Nothing came to him and it made her seem all the more irritating.

“You must be a witch. You’ve only been here five minutes and I already feel cursed.”

“Perhaps I am. And perhaps later I’ll wave some essence of burnt toad over your head and make your leg disappear. Then it won’t trouble you further. For now, you’re going to find out that I can cut out a bullet as fast and clean as any so-called doctor.”

Before he could stop her, Isabel whipped a knife from the waistband of her skirt. With the skill of a surgeon she sliced through the bandanna in one clean swipe. The quick motion brought Jake halfway to his feet, his left hand slapping instinctively to his hip, his right reaching behind for the nearest Colt.

“Dammit, woman—”

She twisted the knife and pointed it at him, tip first.

“Be quiet and lie back. I don’t expect your undying gratitude, but I won’t fight you for the privilege of cutting a bullet out of your leg while you curse me for it.”

From behind, Chessie let out a gasp, reminding Isabel she still lingered in the room.

“Don’t worry,” Isabel told her, flipping the knife blade back down, “I haven’t killed anyone—yet.” She gave Jake a hard-edged glance. “No matter how rude they are. Or perhaps you’re just afraid of pain.”

Jake studied her a moment, wondering why anyone would think she was a witch. The flush in her cheeks and the sting of her words made her look and sound far too real to be anything magical. He knew about Mexican women who used herbs and faith to doctor those who believed a handful of weeds and a touch could heal. But this Isabel didn’t look Mexican, or even Spanish, with her pale hair and eyes the color of New Mexican turquoise.

“Who are you?” he heard himself ask, wondering why he cared.

“Isabel Bradshaw. I’m a healer.”

“Bradshaw? That’s not very Mexican.”

“Considering my husband was an American, I wouldn’t expect it to be. And you didn’t answer my question. Are you afraid of pain?” She moved closer, still gripping the knife. “Or of me?”