Thanks for the reviews! I am glad so many of you were upset that Buck died—it shows you really liked him. I appreciate everyone's comments, even those of you who are NOT happy!
Stay tuned to find out about Kin…
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Mrs. George Darcy was dreaming.
In her dream it was summertime, the hottest, most languid time of the year. The air was thick and humid and full of scents that she had not smelled in years—the heady rush of magnolias, the clean, fresh tang of the tilled earth, the rosewater splashed onto her handkerchief, and the sweet violets in the nosegay at her waist. She felt her silk skirts rustle around her ankles as she rose and ran down through the avenue of cedars that led to the drive. Across the little footbridge that spanned the lazy river that wound around the place—her home. In her dream, she was home.
There was a soft rap at her bedroom door and she pulled herself awake, with difficulty. After a cautious pause, the door opened, and Josiah poked his head into the room. Mrs. Darcy was, for a moment, annoyed, and tried to compose herself, smoothing her hair and tying her nightdress tighter at the neck. "What is it?"
Josiah was, even in the middle of the night, respectful. He was a large, gentle man, timid around people but splendid with animals. He shifted awkwardly in the door-way.
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but there's a ruckus around town."
"What? Is it fire? I don't smell anything. Have you gotten the stock inside?"
Josiah waited for her to finish her interjection and began again. "No ma'am, it's nothing like that…"
"Is the Wilkins girl having her baby? I told them not to call me until she was crowning. First babies take a powerful long time to be born and I'm not about to sit around with old Amelia longer than I have to."
"It ain't no baby, neither."
"Gracious, Josiah! If you're going to tell me, tell me. If you want to play guessing games I think I'll wait until morning."
"There's been a shooting, ma'am. An Injun surprised a little group camping out down by the river. Three kilt and one beat up pretty bad—a girl. They need you to come."
Before he had finished speaking she was out of bed and had lighted the lamp, and was shrugging into her dress, fastening the buttons on her basque with alarming speed. A few quick twists and her hair was in a neat knot at the back of her neck. She felt around on the floor by the bed.
"My bag?"
"I've got the doctor's things right here."
Mrs. Darcy's lips curved in an automatic smile. George hadn't left her with much when he died—what she had she had built the bulk of with her own two hands—but he had left her his doctor's tools, and she had in her sharp mind all the long-ago nursing she had done during the war. She stepped into her boots and snatched her bag, speaking in brusque monosyllables to save time.
"Where?"
"The saloon, ma'am."
At the door she turned, her brow furrowed with a sudden worry. "Oh, but I couldn't leave…"
"I'll stay, ma'am, and wait up. You needn't worry."
"It may be some time…"
"However long it takes, I'll stay."
"Thank you, Josiah." With a wry grin she went out, cramming her hat down over her curls. The front door opened and she disappeared into the night.
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The saloon was lit dimly, but in the darkness she could see that the tables, which were, at other times, used for serving meals and dealing cards, had been turned into makeshift stretchers. There were three white shapes, covered with sheets. She quickly turned each one aside, glancing underneath. A man—dead. A girl—an Indian girl—dead. And a baby, dead, too. At this, Mrs. Darcy made the sign of the cross, automatically. It was an old habit that came back to her in times of trouble—she had not set foot inside a church in years, except for the old Baptist preaching-house, for George's funeral. Well, there wasn't anything she could do for these poor folks. She was not one to ruminate on things that could not be helped, and she stepped quickly to the fourth table, where a group of men were clustered around the white, still body of a young man. Man—her eyes flickered over him appraisingly. By all rights he should be called a man—but really, he was hardly any more than a boy. His face looked very young, and the dark stubble on his chin seemed incongruous with the boyish features.
Her eyes moved over his form, taking in everything at once. She could tell by his clothes that he was a cowboy—by the stain on his shirt that he had lost a lot of blood. But he was alive. His chest rose and fell rapidly, almost imperceptibly—but he was alive.
"I need light," she commanded, and the throng of men parted to reveal a girl. Good heavens! Her face was battered, with large purple bruises blossoming over her cheeks. Her lip was split and contorted grotesquely as she tried to speak. She tried several times before words would come.
"I am Mrs. Darcy," said Mrs. Darcy. The girl blinked and seemed to try very hard to process this information.
"A doctor?" she asked finally, beseechingly. She looked very young and afraid. "A doctor?" she said again.
"There isn't any doctor," said Mrs. Darcy. "There hasn't been a doctor in these parts for two years."
The girl covered her mouth, in panic. Her eyes grew wide and fearful and desperate, and she began to make keening, high-pitched sounds, clutching the hand of the boy on the table. Her wails gave way into shrill screams.
Mrs. Darcy opened her bag and drew out bandages, scissors, and a vial of morphia. These things she arranged on the seat of a chair that she drew near. When she had laid them out, she turned to the girl and brought her hand sharply across her face. The girl cried out as her already-battered face flamed with pain again. She looked up at her attacker with hurt, confused eyes.
"Hush," Mrs. Darcy told her, "You will wake the town. He is not sick enough to die."
The girl remained silent—blessedly silent. She crammed the knuckles of her hand against her bruised lips.
"He will not die?" she whispered. "He will not die?"
"Not if I can help it." Mrs. Darcy cut through his shirt in one smooth motion. "He is your…"
"Husband," said the girl. "He will not die?"
"Most likely not."
She began to rock back and forth, her hands clasped around her knees. The older woman looked at the younger one sharply.
"You'll be quiet or you'll have to go outside."
The girl nodded, looking up through her tangled strands of hair.
"Good." Mrs. Darcy began to work over the boy, and the girl rocked back and forth. Her brow was furrowed and tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked, but she did not make a sound and she did not close her eyes.
She rolled the boy over and saw that the bullet had gone all the way through. Good. That meant a clean wound, at least. She felt around. It had missed the lung. That was good, too. And the artery—if it had hit the artery he would have bled to death and there would be nothing they could do about that except watch it happen. As it was, there was very little they could do except bandage him and wait and see. He hadn't lost too much blood—but there was no telling with these things, and she did not want to make a promise that she could not keep to this poor, terrified girl. Why, she was just a girl—a little girl—hardly older than sixteen or so. How could this child be somebody's wife?
The boy's eyes flickered as his wound was dressed. "Lorie," he murmured, and the girl started, as if brought back to herself.
"I'm here, darling. Oh, my darling. I'm here." She kissed his hand, passionately, and his eyes settled shut again. Some of the color had come back into his cheeks.
A few drops of morphia on his tongue and he was sleeping soundly, and breathing better. "Let him be," ordered Mrs. Darcy, and she turned to the girl, who dropped his hand unwillingly.
Her face was black and blue and her lip needed a stitch. Other than that she seemed unharmed.
Her hands were so cold, so cold. The poor child. What a predicament to find herself in. Her friends were dead, and her husband might be dying, for all she knew. How nice it would be to cuddle her in her arms and let her sob her fears away. And how strange that she should think that! Everyone knew that the "doctor's wife" didn't welcome caresses.
"Lorie," said Mrs. Darcy, and the girl jumped as though she'd been struck. "Is that your name?"
A nod.
"Listen to me, Lorie," she said, and the girl's eyes roamed around the room wildly for a moment before fixing on her face. "What is your husband's name?"
"Kin—Kinnicut. It's R. Xavier Kinnicut. He goes by Kin."
"Well, I think Kin is going to live. I think he is going to be well. But it will take time."
The girl considered this.
"Do you believe me?"
"Yes," she said, and she began to rock again.
"Listen to me," said Mrs. Darcy, and her voice was gentler, now. "He is going to sleep for a long time and then he will wake. In a few hours I will have these men move him to my house—when it is safe. You can stay there until he is better. Will you let me take a stitch in your lip?"
The girl nodded, eyes wide. She had stopped her rocking, and was sitting perfectly still, as though rooted to her spot. Her hand touched her bloody lip and she seemed surprised to find that there was blood from it on her hand. She nodded again.
"Do you need to take a drink of whisky first?"
The girl shook her head 'no,' but Mrs. Darcy called for a glass anyway. When it was delivered to her, she placed it under the girl's nose.
"Drink," she said, and the girl sipped obediently.
She threaded her needle, watching as the girl calmed herself. First her shoulders relaxed. She let out a long breath and then shuddered. She sipped again and her face lost some of its livid horror and the color came back to her cheeks. Her hand crept down and cradled her belly.
"I was sick before," she said childishly, and took another sip.
Mrs. Darcy suddenly took the glass away. "That's enough," she said, looking over the girl with a critical eye.
Up close, she saw that the girl was a pretty thing, underneath her bruises. She had a sweet face. Such a pretty, upturned little nose. Such slanting, tip-tilted eyes. She was somebody's little girl. Here and there was a freckle like a dot of honey against milky skin. Oh, for a moment she wanted to seize that face and lay a kiss upon it but she did not know why!
"Hold still," said Mrs. Darcy tenderly.
She brushed a lock of auburn hair away from the girl's face, delighting in the feel of the warm skin against her hand. For the first time, the girl seemed to really see her, and the older woman sat back on her heels as she felt the girl's gaze run all over her face. The red curls brushed against the black. Green eyes stared into green eyes.
And then the girl leapt to her feet. Her eyes were no longer green but a strange white blaze.
"Mother!" she cried, and Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler Darcy put her hands to her throat in shock. "Mother—oh, Mother!"
