Abbie's Outlaw

“Lie down,” she ordered. “Moving makes it bleed.”

“I’m all right.” John nudged her hand away and gripped the cotton. “I’ll do that. You need to get dressed.”

“I’m not going with you and neither is Beth.” Abbie sat back on her knees. “If a woman is the one to leave, a divorce can cost her everything.”

He wanted to ask how she knew such a thing, but first he had to convince her to come home with him. He knew better than to bark orders at her, so he appealed to her common sense. “I don’t trust Handley to keep Ed locked up. You won’t be safe unless I stay here.”

“Then it’s decided.”

Her mind still worked like lightning. His was fogged with pain. “What’s decided?”

“You can sleep in this room and Beth can stay with me. We can take turns looking out for you.”

The plan sounded logical, except John wanted his privacy. No, that wasn’t exactly right. He needed solitude like he needed air. He gritted his teeth. “I’m not staying here.”

Abbie looked down her nose. “Don’t be foolish. That gash doesn’t hurt right now, but tomorrow you’ll be crying like a baby.”

“Want to bet?” He hadn’t shed a tear in thirty years and he wasn’t going to start over an itty-bitty cut, even if it did need two dozen stitches. And he sure as the devil didn’t care for the thought of visitors. He wanted to lick his wounds in private. He also wanted to be sure Abbie and Beth would be safe, and he couldn’t do that here. Half the time Sally didn’t even lock her doors.

A wet cough pulled John’s gaze to the doorway where he saw Doc Randall shuffling into the room with his black bag.

“Hello, Reverend,” he said. “It looks like you’ve been fighting again.”

Abbie glared up at the doctor. “The Reverend saved Beth Davies from a beating. Her husband started the fight.”

Ignoring her, the elderly man hunched forward and let his bag drop the last six inches to the floor. As he crouched, John saw his knees wobble with the effort. “Damn floor gets lower every year,” said the doctor.

Abbie’s brows tightened with concern. “Maybe I can find a stool for you.”

“I’ll manage,” said Randall. “Just give me a minute.”

John glanced at Abbie who looked as worried about the doctor as she was about him. New Mexico generally attracted young men looking to make their fortunes, and she’d probably been expecting someone fresh out of medical college. Instead she’d just met Methuselah.

With a grunt, the doctor dropped to his hips and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. After a hearty throat-clearing, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his nose and coughed—right over John’s bleeding belly.

Abbie’s stomach curdled as a mist of spit hit her face. Doc Randall had experience, but she doubted he’d read a medical article in twenty years. He’d probably never heard of Louis Pasteur and Joseph Lister, but Abbie had. She read all the time. If Randall didn’t take precautions, an infection was almost certain.

“Doctor, would you like soap and water for your hands? Or maybe you have carbolic in your bag?”

When Randall didn’t look at her, Abbie guessed that he was hard of hearing. If he’d had carbolic, he would have used it by now, so she raised her voice and enunciated each word. “I’ll get Ed’s whiskey. Alcohol kills germs.”

Randall glared at her. “I heard you the first time, missy. All that germ talk is nonsense. Some folks get sick and some don’t. It’s the luck of the draw.”

“It’s not,” Abbie replied. “I do a lot of reading. Cleanliness is important.”

She stood and retrieved the pint Ed had been swigging. After wiping the lip of the bottle with her nightgown, she held it out to the doctor. “You should use it to clean the needle and the wound.”

Randall waved it off and pulled the edges of John’s skin together with his grimy fingers. Clenching the bottle, Abbie dropped to her knees. “Doctor, you have to—”

“Someone get this woman out of my way.”

“Listen to her, Doc,” John said. “I’d rather drink the whiskey, but what can it hurt?”

Doc Randall harrumphed. “It’s gonna hurt plenty. Do you want her to treat this wound, or me?”

Abbie forced herself to sound reasonable. “If you don’t take precautions, that cut will get infected. Even with whiskey, it might go bad.”

“It’s a waste of good liquor,” said Randall.

John shrugged. “It’s my call, Doc. Just do it.”

With a disgusted grunt, the doctor took the bottle and poured the alcohol on the wound without a warning. John cried out and clutched at the floor, but there was nothing to squeeze. Abbie felt his pain as if it were her own. She had learned to tend the injuries that Robert inflicted, and she’d screamed for two days while giving birth to Robbie. She’d been torn nearly in two, but what hurt even more was never having another child. With tears rising in her eyes, she rocked forward and took John’s hand in both of hers. “It’ll be over soon,” she crooned. “Just hang on.”

His fingers tightened around hers. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.”

His pupils had dilated with pain. If she could have rocked him in her arms, she would have done it. She hated suffering of any kind, but especially when the victim had been struck down while protecting the innocent.

All sorts of words were pouring from the Reverend’s lips. Some were the prayers she would have expected from a man of the cloth, but others were bitter. In that mix of faith and human failing, she saw both the gunslinger she’d known in Kansas and the man he’d become. She wasn’t sure what to make of the differences.

As the stinging passed, John composed himself, though he didn’t let go of her hand until Doc Randall took the last stitch.

“That should do it,” said the older man. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

John pushed to a sitting position. “We’ll be at the parsonage.”

Abbie was about to renew their argument about where to stay when Doc Randall interrupted. “Sally’s got room for you. It’s time you let your friends take care you.”

When John clutched his side and pushed to his feet, Abbie knew that Doc Randall had lost the argument. Wise or not, John was going home alone and Abbie wondered why. Did he still have nightmares, the shaming kind where he cried out in his sleep? Or maybe he couldn’t stand the thought of fleas and scratchy sheets.

Abbie knew in her soul that living under his roof was asking for trouble. It wasn’t just the way his eyes turned hungry when he looked at her. It was knowing she could still sense his thoughts and he could sense hers. A long time ago, they’d been that close…she’d held his hand while he’d told her how his father would beat him with a shovel and his mother had walked away. She had rubbed his back and fed him apple pie…

“Abbie? Did you hear me?” John asked.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said Doc’s going to drive me home in his buggy. I’d appreciate it if you and Beth would come with me, but I won’t ask twice.”

But he had asked twice in Kansas. He’d asked her for more than she had been ready to give. Would he do it again? She didn’t think so, but it didn’t matter. She’d be a fool to make herself vulnerable to the man with her daughter’s brown eyes.

But she’d be something even worse if she didn’t help him—a coward, and an ungrateful one at that. The blood on the floor would have been hers if he hadn’t kicked down the door. And if the wound became infected as she feared, he’d be suffering for days and even facing death. The thought made Abbie tremble with dread. Susanna had a right to meet her father, and Abbie owed him her life.

Looking at John, she said, “I’ll walk over with Beth and Robbie.”

He gave her a curt nod. “The front door’s unlocked. Just make yourselves comfortable upstairs.”

Her whole body tensed at the thought of sharing his house, but how difficult could it be? He’d probably dose up on laudanum and sleep like a baby. At least that’s what she hoped.