“Why’d you call the preacher?”
“He didn’t call me.” The man offered his hand. “I’m Samuel Hart. My daughter was on the train yesterday. She’s one of the passengers you saved from being robbed. She told me all about the incident.”
“Hart,” he said with a scowl. “The blonde?”
“That’s Elisabeth.”
Gabe groaned. “She had a strong aversion to parting with her neck chain.”
Samuel Hart nodded. “She’s worn the ring on that chain ever since my first wife died.”
Gabe glanced around the room, finally noting there was another man lying on a cot several feet away. He looked to be sleeping or unconscious. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Snake bite,” Dr. Barnes replied. “Just got here an hour or so ago.”
Gabe turned his attention back to the preacher. “If the doc didn’t call you, why are you here?”
“I came yesterday, too, though you never woke up. I prayed for you and came back to see how you’re doing.”
Gabe couldn’t recall anyone praying over him before. “I hurt like I’ve been dragged behind a team of horses.”
The man in the other bed moaned, and the doctor moved to attend to him.
“Well, thank God you’re alive,” the preacher said.
Gabe studied him again and attempted to sit up, but pain lanced through his side and took his breath away. He rested a hand over the bandages. “I’ve been shot before, but it never hurt like this.”
“Cracked ribs hurt more than a wound,” the doctor said. “But you can’t take a chance on opening that hole or letting it get infected.”
“I can’t stay here,” Gabe objected. For one thing, if any of the train robbers’ friends had heard of him being shot, the first place they’d search would be the doctor’s. “I have business to see to.”
“Where do you plan to go?” the doc asked him. “You need close supervision for at least a week or better.”
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full with the snake-bit fella,” Gabe replied.
“You can come home with me,” the preacher said.
Gabe gave him a sidelong look.
“I have a big house full of women who can help me look out for you.”
“I do have to head out this afternoon and make calls,” the doc advised. “Plus look after this fella. You’d likely get better care at the Harts’.”
Gabe hated to admit it, but the thought of moving more than his toes made him sweat. He’d pulled through a lot worse than this, though. “All right. The preacher’s house it is.”
Chapter Three
Elisabeth returned from the clothesline with a basket of her clean folded clothing in time to hear a commotion coming from the front hall.
“Not there!” a man shouted. “Don’t grab me there, for pity’s sake!”
She didn’t recognize the voice, but then her father’s more calming words reached her. “We’ll have you settled in just a minute, Mr. Taggart.”
Taggart? She entered the enormous sunlit foyer from the back hallway, stopped and stared.
Her father and Gil supported the tall man, one on each side, and Dr. Barnes followed, carrying his bag in one hand, a carton in the other.
“Just a little farther,” Sam coaxed.
“Any farther and you might as well just shoot me again,” the man growled. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his swarthy face had turned pasty white. A steep set of narrow stairs led from the street up to the house, and he’d just maneuvered them with a bullet wound.
Sam glanced up. “Elisabeth, bring cold water and wash rags to the bedroom on the south corner.”
“But that’s…” At her father’s stern look, she let her voice trail off. Next to mine. What was he thinking? “Yes, sir.”
She set down her basket and hurried to the kitchen. Her father had brought that man here! To their home! She cringed in mortification. Now she’d be forced to face him—and her shame.
Minutes later, she climbed the stairs with a pitcher and toweling. She traveled the now-silent corridor and paused outside the closed door. From inside, she heard rustles and a couple of grunts.
The door opened and her father gestured for her to enter.
Gil stood just inside the room, and she met his interested gaze. “Looks like Mr. Taggart’s going to be your guest for a while,” he said.
Reluctantly, she followed her father inside.
They had removed the man’s clothing and tucked a sheet up around his waist and over part of his chest. His ribs were bound, the white wrapping a stark contrast against dark skin that held scars from previous injuries. Who was this man?
“You did just fine,” Dr. Barnes said, standing over him. “The wound isn’t bleeding.” He turned and took the pitcher from Elisabeth, poured water into the bowl and got a cloth wet. “The Harts will take care of you. They’re good people.”
Gabe took the wet rag from the doctor and wiped his perspiring face.
Dr. Barnes set a bottle on the bureau. “He gets two teaspoons every six hours for pain. It’ll help him sleep. Give him a dose now.”
“You’ll be in charge of his medicine, Elisabeth,” her father directed.
“Me-e?” She hadn’t meant to squeak.
“You’re the most meticulous,” he replied.
She nodded her obedient consent, but kept the disagreeable man she’d hoped never to see again under her observation. He didn’t appear any more pleased with the situation than she, which was a comfort.
“I’ll check on you tomorrow,” the doc told him.
Gil glanced from the stranger to Elisabeth with a crooked grin and headed downstairs, followed by the doctor.
“Elisabeth will see to your needs,” Sam told Gabe. “And I’ll be back at suppertime.”
He progressed into the hall, and she followed, not wanting to be left alone with their patient. The other two men headed downstairs. “What am I supposed to do with him?” she whispered to her father.
“Give him his medicine and something to drink. Let him sleep. If he gets hungry, bring him a meal.” He took a step toward the stairs, but stopped and met her gaze. “Oh, and you might try thanking him for saving your mother’s wedding ring.”
He turned and walked away.
Her heart picked up speed and, as though the pressure would calm her pulse, she flattened her palm against her waist. She took a deep breath and released it. Slowly, she turned back to the room and entered, lowering the hand to her side. The Taggart fellow leveled that piercing green gaze on her, but his demeanor was blessedly less imposing minus his hat and shirt.
“Alone at last,” he said.
Normally she prided herself on her calm demeanor, but this man managed to fluster her with every breath.
“Where did they put my gun?”
“You’re not going to need your gun here,” she assured him.
Grimacing, he attempted to lean forward, but grabbed his side through the sheet and bandage. “It’s on that bureau.” He pointed.