At Love's Command Page 7

  “Thanks a lot, Preach.” Wallace shoved him with his good arm. Luke made a show of staggering backward even though Wallace was still too weak to put much oomph behind the gesture.

  Luke clapped a hand to his chest and schooled his features into a semblance of piety. “‘Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.’ Proverbs 17:28. In case you want to skip the extra sling option.”

  Wallace rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you’re breaking some kind of infirmary etiquette by picking on the patient.”

  “Then I guess we better get you out of the infirmary.” Matt enjoyed the comradery shared by his men, but he knew their patterns all too well. The teasing was fixing to cycle back around, and he could do without talk of him and the lady doc bouncing off the walls and carrying down to the examination room. He could handle the ribbing, but he didn’t want Josephine embarrassed or made to feel uncomfortable.

  He gripped Wallace’s left elbow and helped him to his feet. A bit of color drained from the kid’s face, but he managed to stand. His battle-hardened tenacity kicked in as he conquered the wobble in his legs and walked to the door. Matt released his elbow, letting him make his own way, but he and Preach flanked him on either side, ready to step in if needed, as Jonah cleared a path to the parlor.

  The kid made it to the next room under his own power and even managed to lower himself onto the upholstered settee by bracing his weight on the sofa arm as he eased down. Matt wasn’t thrilled at the sweat beading Wallace’s brow, but the kid didn’t seem to be breathing too hard, so he let it go without comment and turned his attention to the other two Horsemen.

  “How’d the delivery go in San Marcos?” he asked.

  Preach’s gaze lingered on Wallace, concern evident in the lines of his face, but he followed Matt’s cue and took a seat in one of two matching armchairs across from the settee. Jonah slid into the other, leaving Matt to share the sofa with Wallace.

  “There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth during the wound stitching.” The disgust on Luke’s face made it clear what he thought of the mettle of the injured rustler. “But we got ’em all delivered in one piece to the marshal. Ringleader had a price on his head, so we earned a nice little bonus to go along with our fee.”

  Matt nodded. He’d had no doubts his men could handle the rustlers. But the news of the reward was a welcome surprise. The Horsemen donated all reward money to the army’s widow-and-orphan fund, earmarking their donations specifically for families of fellow cavalrymen.

  “Dalton said we can stay at the ranch as long as we like,” Jonah added with a tip of his head toward Mark. “So you got plenty o’ time to heal up afore we move on, Wallace.”

  “The doctor expects my arm to be out of commission for a couple weeks, but I should be good to sit a horse in a few days.”

  Matt cut him off. “We’ll stay a week.”

  The kid didn’t want to be seen as a hindrance. Matt understood that. The army taught a man to be ready to go when the bugle blew no matter what aches and pains he suffered. But a hole in the shoulder was more significant than a bruised rib or strained back. He needed more than healthy pride to make a full recovery.

  “I can be ready sooner, Captain. I—”

  Matt raised a brow and toughened his tone. “A week, Wallace.” He’d not budge on this point. “Longer, if the doc thinks you need it.”

  Wallace slumped a tad at the pronouncement but acquiesced with a nod.

  “Now,” Matt said, reaching into his pocket for the scrap of paper he’d written his notes on during the wee hours of the morning, “I got a few job possibilities for us to vote on. We’ll be down one gun for a bit, but there’s one item in particular that seems geared to Wallace’s other talents.”

  “You mean women.” Preach smirked.

  Matt grinned. “Among other things.”

  “What you got, boss?” Jonah leaned forward in his seat, neatly getting them back on topic and sparing Wallace from further ribbing.

  Matt examined the three items on his list. “Kendall forwarded me a letter from a widow who can’t seem to hire any men to work her ranch. Ain’t a lot of cowpokes willing to take orders from a woman to start with, but after one of her men was threatened and bloodied by a group of masked thugs, no one’s even applied. She’s pretty sure the thugs work for her late husband’s rival, but with no proof, local law enforcement refuses to step in.”

  Jonah let out a soft whistle. “None of her hired men stayed on after her man kicked the bucket? Don’t sound like there’s much respect for the widow, if’n that’s the case.”

  Matt thought back to the letter he’d read that morning. “I think she’s still got her husband’s foreman sticking around, but the rest have scattered.”

  “Hmm.” Preach leaned back in his chair and rubbed his jaw. “This foreman single?”

  Matt shrugged. “Don’t know. Why?”

  Instead of answering, Preach asked another question. “You know how the husband died, or how long ago?”

  “Fella’s been gone three months, but her letter said nothing about how he died. What’re you thinking?”

  “Just seems odd for men to abandon the brand they’d been riding for so easily. Jonah’s right. Something’s wrong there.”

  Wallace sat up straighter, interest flaring in his eyes. “You don’t think the threat of violence explains the defection?”

  “Maybe.” Luke crossed his ankle over his knee. “But most cowmen I know are tough. If one of their own got singled out for a beating, they’d retaliate in a group themselves, not pick up and leave. But if they didn’t respect the man or woman giving the orders . . .”

  “But they’d been working for this foreman already,” Wallace insisted. “Wouldn’t that indicate trust and respect?”

  Jonah tapped his thumb against the chair arm. “He coulda done something to break their trust.”

  Wallace frowned. “Like what?”

  Luke scratched at a spot behind his right ear. “Like murder their boss.”

  “Whoa.” Matt shook his head. “That’s a big leap, Preach.”

  Luke held out a hand. “Hear me out. What if this foreman’s been sweet on the cattleman’s wife and decided to rid himself of the competition? He takes out the owner, the wife inherits, he gets to run the ranch however he sees fit, and if he convinces her to marry him, he gets everything. Any hands who don’t like it can leave. Men loyal to the original owner and not the foreman would leave.”

  Matt shook his head. “But why scare off new hands? And why ask for help from the Horsemen?” Preach’s story might be plausible, but it was too convoluted to be probable. Yet this was exactly why they discussed the jobs they took. Four different men with varied life experiences saw things from four different angles. Kept them out of trouble more often than not.

  “What if scaring off the new hands was an accident?” Preach insisted, warming to his tale even more. It wouldn’t surprise Matt if his corporal took up writing dime novels someday. “Maybe one of the old hands threatened to take his suspicions to the sheriff. Foreman gets wind of it and hires a gang of masked bullies to rough him up and feed him a story about how anyone choosing to work for the widow would pay the price. It works too well. Word spreads, and no one wants to ride for the brand. As for her asking for our help, maybe the widow doesn’t see the foreman for the fiend he is. She’s seeking help because she believes the lies he’s been feeding her.”

  “Well, if that’s the case,” Wallace said, “she needs our help more than ever! If this cad killed her husband, there’s no telling what he’ll do to her if she spurns his advances after all the trouble he went through to get her all to himself. I say we take the job.”

  Matt grinned. Always the gallant gentleman riding in on the white horse to save the damsel. Though the kid did have a point. If Preach’s story held water. Matt wasn’t convinced it did.

  “Or this could be exactly the situation she
describes.” Matt injected some common sense into the conversation. “A cattleman is taking advantage of the widow of his rival and trying to run her into the ground financially so he can corner the local market.”

  Jonah’s thumb ceased tapping. “I think we should scout it out before deciding one way or the other. Too many variables in play.”

  Preach uncrossed his leg, his boot heel thumping against the floor. “Agreed.”

  “Might need to use assumed names.” Wallace’s eyes glowed with excitement. Apparently he wasn’t ready to let this one go just yet. “One of us could hire on undercover. Check things out from the inside. Once we get the lay of the land, Matt can meet with the widow to secure payment for our services, but we’d have to swear her to secrecy. Ensure she doesn’t tell the foreman who we are. It’d be the only way to learn the truth. I could get her to open up to me—”

  Matt scowled. “You’ve got a hole in your shoulder. No one’s going to hire a cowhand with only one working arm.”

  “Then I could coach Preach on how to earn her trust.”

  “As if I need help sweet-talkin’ a woman.” The largest Horseman leaned forward in his chair and scowled with enough heat to send a lesser man running for cover.

  Wallace only scoffed. “Preach, you couldn’t sweet-talk a woman with a bucket full of peppermint sticks in hand.”

  “Enough!” Matt clapped his hands against his thighs, too tired to put up with this nonsense after the restless night he’d had. “No one’s sweet-talking anyone, all right?”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

  Four sets of eyes swiveled to the doorway, where Josephine stood with a tea tray in hand.

  “I’d hoped to sweet-talk my way into the room with tea and cookies.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Josephine smiled at the men before her, all of whom were rising to their feet. Even Mr. Wallace made the effort until the captain signaled with a sharp hand motion for him to remain seated.

  She’d obviously gotten here just in time. The last thing her patient needed was to get worked up emotionally. The increased vocal volume coming from the parlor as she approached proved that she’d been right not to leave the men completely unsupervised.

  “Don’t worry,” she said with a slightly sheepish glance at Mr. Hanger, “I didn’t make the cookies. Mrs. Carrington brought over a batch this morning. I did make the tea, but I’ve been told by reliable sources that my brewing skills are semi-competent.”

  “I’m sure the tea is excellent,” Mr. Wallace said from the sofa, his charm apparently unimpaired by his exertion. She’d take that as a good sign. Had his charisma been absent, she would have ordered him to bed immediately.

  Mr. Hanger suddenly appeared before her, having crossed the room while she visually examined her patient. He relieved her of the tray and turned to set it on the low table in front of the settee.

  “Thank you.” Her mouth dried slightly as she watched him handle the heavy tray with ease, the play of his muscles visible to the discerning eye through the cloth of his shirt. And her eye was definitely discerning. Disconcertingly discerning.

  Josephine bustled forward, poured tea, set cookies on plates, and absolutely did not think about Mr. Hanger’s muscles.

  She’d seen countless men shirtless over the years. Her brother and his friends at the swimming hole. Cadavers in medical school. And, of course, patients with injuries to the torso or upper extremities. Goodness, she’d seen Mr. Wallace’s chest, and he was just as virile a specimen as Mr. Hanger. Well, perhaps not quite as virile, but certainly robust enough to create an impressive muscular display. Yet nothing about the younger man’s form drew her eye for any purpose other than professional inspection. The captain, on the other hand . . . well, the current fluttering in her abdominal region symptomized a disorder of decidedly non-professional origins.

  Which meant it had no place in her clinic. And she had no place in this room. At least not until she had her unprofessional fluttering under control.

  “Physician, heal thyself,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?” Captain Hanger looked at her oddly.

  Rats. Apparently her comment had not been far enough under her breath.

  Josephine covered her discomfort with a grin and straightened from bending over the tea table. “I know I interrupted your conversation, and I apologize. I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business.”

  She kept her gaze averted from the captain, finding Mr. Wallace’s easy smile far less disruptive to her pulse.

  “Your interruption is always welcome, Doctor Burkett.” Mr. Wallace winked at her. Almost as if he were privy to her wayward thoughts.

  “Yes, well, you,” she instructed the hopefully not-as-insightful-as-he-seemed fellow with a point of her finger, “should take it easy on the flirtation. In my experience, men trying to impress those around them tend to push themselves harder than they should and end up impeding their recovery.”

  He schooled his features. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Of course, both of them knew it wasn’t her he was trying to impress.

  Leaving the men to enjoy their refreshments, and putting some much-needed distance between her abdomen and Mr. Hanger’s muscles, Josephine headed for the door.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Hanger and his muscles decided to follow, and as soon as she stepped into the hall, he opened his mouth and made it impossible for her to continue pretending he wasn’t there. Etiquette dictated that one look at a person when being spoken to, after all.

  “Thank you for the tea.” The captain’s weight shifted from one foot to the other, his usual aura of confidence strangely absent. “I, uh, want to apologize . . . for earlier.”

  “Earlier?” Were the tips of his ears turning red?

  “In the . . . infirmary.” The ruddiness spread to his neck and made a steady climb toward his jaw. “I never should have . . . disrobed with the door standing open.”

  Oh, good heavens. He was apologizing for that? The image she’d fought so hard to banish jumped right back into her cerebrum and posed for her appreciation. Josephine ducked her head. She’d been doing so well focusing on his discomfort that she’d successfully forgotten her own. Now her cheeks rivaled his neck.

  “Too many years surrounded by military men, I suppose.” He grabbed his nape, his gaze skittering away from hers. “I didn’t even consider a woman . . . walking in.”

  “I took no offense.” What she had taken was a nice long look, one that lasted far longer than it should have. “I’m a physician,” she said with a wave of her hand, as if the vision of him half-dressed hadn’t seared itself on her brain. “I’m accustomed to viewing human anatomy.” Which was true. It was also why the lingering effect was so disturbing. She should have gotten over it by now.

  His eyes finally met hers, and her stomach flared. She pressed her palm against the out-of-line organ, warning it to behave. Not that it listened.

  “Still,” he said. “I’m sor—”

  The clinic door flew open. “Dr. Jo!”

  Douglas Flanders burst into the front hall, and Josephine nearly jumped out of her skin.

  The captain had her shoved halfway behind him before he realized the threat was only a twelve-year-old boy.

  “Oh, there you are.” Doug peered around Mr. Hanger as if a cavalryman standing guard over the local doctor was business as usual. “Good.”

  Josephine stepped around the captain, her healer instincts on full alert. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ma’s got one of those spots on her back again. Says it’s really sore. Wants you to come take a look.”

  Josephine nodded. “I’ll get my bag.”

  She strode off to her examination room without a glance at Matthew Hanger. Hoping he’d be back in the parlor by the time she returned, she took an extra minute gathering her supplies. The delay didn’t help. He stood in the hall, patiently answering Doug’s multitude of questions.

  Mrs. Flanders was prone to
carbuncles, but she hadn’t mentioned anything to Josephine two days ago when they ran into each other at the mercantile. Most likely she had decided she needed a doctor today after rumors of the Horsemen spread. Which explained why Douglas came to fetch her instead of his older sister, Dorothea.

  “I won’t be gone long,” she informed the captain while trying not to look at him. She caught his nod from the corner of her eye, then turned her full attention on Douglas. “Let’s be off, shall we?”

  Douglas was as reluctant to leave as she was eager. Taking the boy’s arm, she steered him down the clinic’s front steps and closed the door behind them.

  Never had she actually looked forward to the unpleasant business of lancing and draining a boil, but given the choice of Mrs. Flanders’s carbuncle and continued awkward conversation with Captain Hanger about his state of undress, she was opting for the carbuncle.

  By the time Josephine returned to the clinic, three of the four Horsemen had disappeared. Mr. Wallace napped quietly in the infirmary, and a note lying atop her vacant examination table explained that the captain had gone to the livery to see to the horses.

  Telling herself that the slight deflation in her midsection was a symptom of relief, not disappointment, she set about cleaning the instruments she’d used with Mrs. Flanders and replenished the medicinal supplies in her doctor’s bag.

  Twenty minutes later, the bell on her door jangled. Josephine looked up from the medical journal she’d been reading at her desk and spied Captain Hanger’s distinctive hat. Stashing the cookie she’d been nibbling under the magazine’s pages as if it were illegal contraband, she pushed to her feet and brushed a hand over her skirt to ensure a crumb-free ensemble, then hurried to the doorway.

  “Mr. Wallace is still resting,” she called softly after the man walking down her hall.

  The captain turned and tugged the hat from his head. “I thought I’d sit with him a bit. The others are fetching a wagon from Terrance Dalton, so we should be out of your hair by early afternoon.”