The Engagement Bargain

Mr. McCoy adjusted his hold, and her side burned.

She must have made a noise because he glanced down, his gaze anguished. “Not much farther, Miss Bishop.”

An appropriate response eluded her. She should have answered Jo’s telegram. When Jo had discovered Anna was speaking in Kansas, she’d requested they meet. Anna had never replied. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, and Jo’s world held an undeniable fascination.

Pain slashed through her side. “Will you tell Jo that I’m sorry for not answering sooner?”

“You can tell her yourself.”

Jo was intelligent and independent, and absolutely adored her husband. She had children, yet still worked several hours a week as a telegraph operator.

Anna had never considered the possibility of such a life because she’d never seen such a remarkable example. Marriages of equality were extremely rare, and if Anna let her attention stray toward such an elusive goal, she lost sight of her true purpose. Besides, for every one example of a decent husband, her mother would reply with a hundred instances of drunkenness, infidelities and cruelty. Unless women obtained a modicum of power over their own fates, they’d forever be at the mercy of their husbands.

Mr. McCoy kicked aside a crushed picnic basket, and Anna’s stomach plummeted. Discarded blankets and the remnants of fried chicken and an apple pie had been crushed underfoot. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“Not that I know of.”

Disjointed thoughts bobbed through her head. This was the first time her mother had trusted her with a speech alone. Always before, Victoria Bishop had picked and pecked over every last word. This was the first time Anna had been trusted on her own.

The concession was more from necessity than conviction in Anna’s abilities. Her mother had been urgently needed in Boston for a critical task. The Massachusetts chapter had grossly underestimated the opposition to their most current state amendment vote, and the campaign required immediate reinforcement. More than ever, Anna must prove her usefulness.

Maybe then she’d feel worthy of her role as the daughter of the Great Victoria Bishop. The St. Louis chapter was meeting on Friday. Anna had to represent her mother. She’d arranged to leave for St. Louis tomorrow.

She’d never make the depot at this rate. “I have to change my train ticket.”

Mr. McCoy frowned. “It’ll wait.”

“You don’t waste words, do you, Mr. McCoy?”

A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Nope.”

The sheer helplessness of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. She wasn’t used to being dependent on another person. She’d certainly never been carried by anyone in the whole of her adult life. She felt the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the strength of his arms beneath her bent knees. She was vulnerable and helpless, the sensations humbling.

Upon their arrival in the hotel lobby, Jo rushed toward them. “Oh, dear. What can I do?”

Though they’d only met in person the one time, the sight of Jo filled Anna with relief. Jo’s letters were lively and personal, and she was the closest person Anna had to a friend in Kansas City.

“She’s been shot.” Caleb stated the obvious, keeping his voice low.

Only a few gazes flicked in their direction. The people jamming the lobby were too busy, either frantically reuniting with their missing loved ones or nursing their own bumps and bruises, to pay the three of them much notice.

Mr. McCoy brushed past his sister and crossed to the stairs. “They’ve sent for a surgeon, but we’re running out of time. Fetch my bag and meet me in your room.”

“Why not mine?” Anna replied anxiously. Moving to another room was another change, another slip away from the familiar.

“Because we still don’t know who shot you,” Mr. McCoy said. “Or if they’ll try to finish what they started.”

Jo gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Caleb will take care of you. My room isn’t locked. I’ll let them know where to send the doctor, and I’ll be there in a tick.”

Panic welled in the back of Anna’s throat. All of the choices were being ripped away from her. She’d always been independent. As a child, her mother had insisted Anna take charge of her own decisions. The idea of putting her life in the hands of this stranger terrified her.

Caleb took the stairs two at a time. Though she sensed his care in ensuring she wasn’t jostled, each tiny movement sent waves of agony coursing through her, silencing any protests or avowals of independence she might have made. Upon reaching Jo’s room, he pushed open the door and rested her on the quilted blanket covering the bed.

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, showcasing a cloudless sky. The sight blurred around the edges as her vision tunneled. Her breath strangled in her throat. Her heartbeat slowed and grew sluggish.

Mr. McCoy studied her wound, keeping his expression carefully blank. A shiver wracked her body. His rigidly guarded reactions frightened her more than the dark blood staining his clothing.

“Am I going to die?” Anna asked.

And how would God react to her presence? She’d had Corinthians quoted to her enough over her lifetime that the words were an anathema.

Let your women keep silent in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.

And since women were not allowed to speak in church, they should not be allowed to speak on civic matters. Were they permitted to speak in heaven?

Mr. McCoy’s lips tightened. “You’re not going to die. But I have to stitch you up. We have to stop the bleeding, and I can’t wait for the surgeon. It won’t be easy for you.”

She adjusted her position and winced. “I appreciate your candor.”

He must have mistaken her words as a censure because he sighed and knelt beside the bed, then gently removed her crushed velvet hat and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. His vivid green eyes were filled with sympathy.

A suffragist shouldn’t notice such things, and this certainly wasn’t the time or place for frivolous observations, but he really was quite handsome with his dark hair and warm, green eyes. Handsome in a swarthy kind of way. Anna exhaled a ragged breath. Her situation was obviously dire if that was the drift of her thoughts.

“Miss Bishop,” he said. “Anna. It’s your choice. I’m not a surgeon. We can wait. But it’s my educated opinion that we need to stop the bleeding.”

Every living thing died eventually—every blade of prairie grass, every mosquito, every redwood tree. She’d been wrong before—death, no matter how extraordinary a life one lived on earth, was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Feeling as though she’d regained a measure of control, Anna met his steady gaze. “Are you a very good veterinarian?”

“The best.”

He exuded an air of confidence that put her at ease. “Then, do what needs to be done.”

She barely managed to whisper the words before blackness swirled around her. She hoped he had enough fight left for both of them.

Chapter Two (#ulink_d47a48ab-838f-5056-b970-d07103da2e06)

She’d trusted him. She’d trusted Caleb with her life. He prayed her trust wasn’t misplaced because the coming task filled him with dread.

After tightening the bandage on Anna’s wound, Caleb shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The door swung open, revealing Jo who clutched his bag to her chest. The suffragist from the rally appeared behind his sister. He’d lost sight of her earlier; his attention had been focused elsewhere, but she’d obviously been nearby.

The older woman glanced at the bed. “Where is the surgeon? Hasn’t he arrived yet?”

“I’m afraid not.” Caleb lifted a corner of the blood-soaked bandage and checked the wound before motioning for his sister. “Keep pressure on this.” He searched through his bag and began arranging his equipment on the clean towel draped over the side table. “Unless the doctor arrives in the next few minutes, I’m stitching her up myself.”

He’d brought along his case because that’s the way he always packed. When his services were needed on an extended call, he threw a change of clothing over his instruments so he wasn’t hampered by an extra bag. He’d packed for this trip the same way by rote.

Swiping the back of his hand across the perspiration beading on his forehead, he sighed. Perhaps Jo was partially right, perhaps he was growing too set in his ways.