The Negotiated Marriage. Christina Rich

not discuss our personal matters with mere strangers.”

      Duncan winced. True, they’d met hours before, but he felt as if he’d known her his whole life. Perhaps, given the distress in her eyes, it was his teasing her about Miller that caused her to be surly. However, curiosity about the personal matters between Miller Northrop and Camy stirred in his mind. Any man with a lick of sense would be obsessed with gaining her hand, which obviously proved Duncan didn’t have any sense. And he intended to keep it that way, at least until all was settled and he returned to the city far from the unsettling peace he experienced watching her rest.

      He cleared his throat. “My apologies. You’ve slept the afternoon, and beyond dinner. As I said, Dr. Northrop will escort your sister home tomorrow when he comes to check on you.”

      Camy rolled her eyes. “Ellie is a fine enough doctor to treat me.”

      “We’ve discussed this. I know nothing about these sorts of wounds.” Ellie laid the spoon in a pan of steaming water. “Are you hungry? Benjamin said you could have some broth as long as your stomach can handle it with the medicine.”

      “Where is Hamish?”

      Duncan had hoped Camy held no memory of her uncle’s announcement before entering the cabin. He didn’t want her upset any more than what she was, and any mention of marriage would certainly do just that.

      “I banished him to the barn.” Ellie dipped broth into a bowl. “Mr. Murray, would you mind helping Camy to sit?”

      Careful not to jar the arm held against her in a sling, he pulled back the heavy quilt and scooped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, and settled her against the headboard. He stuffed pillows and a folded quilt behind her back for support.

      “And Pastor Hammond?” Camy whispered near his ear as he settled the quilt around her.

      So much for her not recalling Hamish’s words. “Fortunately—” he smiled at her “—for both of us, winter decided to reappear. It gives us the evening to rest and enjoy one last snow.”

      “But—”

      He touched his finger to her lips. Soft and warm. Dangerous. He jerked his finger away and began tucking the blanket beneath her legs. “No buts. We will worry about tomorrow when the sun rises. Today has had enough cares of its own. Sip your broth, renew your strength and enjoy the peace. I have no doubts Hamish will be rambling before your rooster cries.”

      Duncan stepped away from the bed and glanced around the small cabin for a place to escape. He’d kept his promise. She was awake, and seemed well, but he had far too much experience to believe she was truly well. Memories of men writhing around incoherently, only to slip beyond the here and now, pressed into his mind. He would never forgive himself if she died. He most certainly did not wish to watch her in the throes of agony. He could leave if he chose. However, he wouldn’t be able to until he knew for certain she was well. Besides, Hamish had yet to return his horse and his shoes, Duncan’s toes would freeze if he left. He’d been too concerned with Camy to interrogate Hamish. He believed what he told Camy, that tomorrow would be soon enough to demand the return of his shoes. For now, he needed to determine how to occupy the time without losing his wits, er, or regaining them. Massaging his neck, he contemplated making a run for the barn to seek shelter with Hamish. No doubt, he would be tempted to throttle his old friend for placing them all in a difficult situation.

      “Would you like to join us for our nightly reading of scripture?”

      He glanced over his shoulder to see Camy toying with an invisible string on the quilt. How long had it been since he’d opened a Bible? Since the war?

      She lifted her chin and looked at him from beneath her thick lashes. “Afterward we pray, and then Ellie knits while Mara and I play chess. I suppose you could stand in for Mara.”

      He was still caught on the word pray. “Pray?” he repeated.

      Camy released a nervous giggle.

      The last time he prayed, he’d been holding Geoff Walters’s hand as the young soldier took his last breath. He promised himself he’d never pray again. His earlier mishap of releasing a prayer as she washed down the river was an act of desperation and he wasn’t yet convinced that it had been his prayers that had been answered, for surely she had cried out to God too.

      Ellie laid a thick Bible on the table. “Do not feel obligated, Mr. Murray.”

      “Are you not a praying man?” Camy asked.

      He jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “I, uh, haven’t in a few years. Seems God doesn’t hear much of what a Murray has to say.” After all his father’s sins, who could blame Him?

      “What would ever make you think that?” Ellie sounded dismayed at the idea.

      “I didn’t realize God was selective when it came to surnames,” Camy added. “Selective when it comes to the intention of a man’s heart perhaps, but never with his name. Did we not read from the tenth chapter of the book of Acts last night, Ellie? I believe verse thirty-four said God is no respecter of persons. He does not show favoritism whether rich or poor, male or female, Murray or Sims. If He does not show favoritism, He certainly does not decide to ignore a man because of his name.”