A Match of Sorts Read online

  Moonlight streamed in the lone window and slanted across Libby and Abby. It seemed as if they hadn’t stirred since they’d fallen asleep. A smile tugged at his lips. Good. It was a sight he never tired of seeing. He closed the door, and the click resonated in the stillness.

  With the clothes slung over his shoulder, Caleb struggled down the stairs, using the wall for support. When he and Margaret had first moved here, he’d scaled this staircase with ease and confidence. Now a wagon load of bricks settled in his stomach every time he faced the steps. As he entered the parlor, the collie lifted its head.

  “Don’t worry, girl. Your master will be fine.” He winced. What kind of preacher lied to a dog? With a shake of his head, he stopped at the sofa. First, he pushed the pale hair to the side to inspect the spot where he’d noticed the purplish skin. This kid had been bashed with something solid. Honestly, the bruise had the suspicious shape similar to the stock of a rifle. Probably with the rifle the kid had with him this morning.

  Caleb lowered onto one knee and sniffed the air near the boy’s face and found no scent of alcohol. Shoulders relaxing, he tugged off both leather gloves, revealing slender hands with bruised knuckles and palms covered in calluses. At least for all the kid’s physical awkwardness, he was hardworking. A little delicate, but a hard worker. Worn boots were pulled off, and then Caleb peeled away cold woolen socks. Thank You, Lord. No sign of frostbite marred the narrow feet. After unbuckling the belt, Caleb let it drop on the floor with a thud. The scarf followed. With haste, he unbuttoned the dark coat, slid it from the slack form, and gritted his teeth at the dark stain on the tan shirt sleeve. The blood was too bright to have been from an old wound, but except for the blood, the garment had no damage. A bleeding wound delivered a myriad of different concerns. Infection being the biggest worry.

  Drawing a breath, he unbuttoned the shirt. The sooner he could examine the wound…As the material parted, Caleb’s throat closed. He blinked at the peculiar broad straps of cloth wrapped around the kid’s chest. Subtle but identical mounds caught his eye. He leapt from the sofa as if scalded. Impossible! It couldn’t be.

  Heat spread over his scalp and slid down his neck. His gaze flitted back and forth between the dirt stained face and the meticulously disguised mounds, everything falling into place. The delicate smooth jaw, bow-shaped mouth, and narrow nose kept hidden behind the scarf in the store. The blond hair cropped at a haphazard angle.

  The kid was a woman!

  Caleb snatched the quilt off the rocker and tossed it over her. He paced the length of the parlor.

  The dog stood and barked at his movements and the ma…woman on the sofa moaned.

  “Shh.” Caleb waved at the collie, and the animal returned to its spot by the hearth. Two overly curious little girls underfoot weren’t needed at the moment. And neither was a woman screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Her eyes clenched tight, and then her face contorted in pain. The blow to the head probably gave her quite a headache. She groaned.

  He needed Ellen’s help. But fetching her now was impossible. He couldn’t leave his two daughters in this weather. Alone. With this…with this person. No properly-reared woman dressed as a man or posed as a man. He gripped his hair.

  Luke hadn’t mentioned anything about a woman outlaw. Since it would be quite an oddity, he would’ve made an announcement.

  Sandpaper scraped Caleb’s throat as he moved back to the sofa. Now was not the time to fret about her reasons for her odd guise. She was injured and in need of assistance. And he was the only one able to offer aid. Lord, please don’t let her wake up while I’m examining the wound.

  “Miss?” He tapped her shoulder.

  Nothing. Not even a whimper.

  Caleb slipped his arm under her shoulders and lifted her. Her even breathing warmed the side of his neck, stirring the hairs of his beard. He ignored the tightening in his midsection. As gently as possible, he adjusted her petite limp body enough for him to ease the shirt aside. A cloth encircled her upper arm, reddened with fresh blood. The only way to examine the wound was to remove the shirt and unwind the bandage.

  “Lord, help me.”

  As he slipped the shirt from her unconscious form, Caleb fixed his gaze on the faded wallpaper covering the wall. Never before had the fern patterns captivated him quite so much. Lord, please don’t let it be a gunshot wound. Treating an unconscious, injured woman was tricky enough; he’d not be able to stomach fishing for a slug in her as well.

  He angled the quilt so that only her hurt arm and shoulder remained exposed. As he removed the bandage, his stomach bucked. A deep gash in the fleshy part of her arm was revealed. Red and swollen, it oozed blood. Uncertain what could’ve caused the injury he squinted at it. She might not need stitches, but the profound gash had to be cleaned and covered in a fresh bandage. And doctored. He rubbed his eyes. This had to be a nightmare. One with a wounded woman disguised as a boy.

  “Daddy?”

  Caleb flinched and exhaled.

  Six-year-old Abby hovered at the door. She blinked hard and stood on tippy-toes. “Who’s that?”

  “Someone who needs help, princess.” He straightened and frowned. “Where’s Libby?”

  “Asleep.” Abby toddled over, a tiny frown marring her brow. “Can I help?”

  With a nod, he pushed to his feet. “I’ll need to doctor this wound.”

  A squeal sliced through the air when Abby spotted Jewel.

  The woman on the sofa whimpered. More incoherent mumblings followed before she drifted off again.

  “I promise you can play with Jewel in the morning, but right now we need to help this lady.”

  Abby nodded and followed him to the kitchen. “Are we like the Good Samaritan, Daddy?”

  “You remember?” He rummaged the cupboard for the items he needed. Of all the flaws he could be burdened with in the world, did he have to be disorganized?

  “That’s my favorite story.”

  “Right. Then tonight, we get to be good Samaritans.” Or fools. He poured warm water into the bowl. As they entered the parlor, Jewel wagged her tail. Setting the bowl of hot water down, Caleb took the container of salve and bandaging cloths from Abby.

  “Miss?” He cupped her cheek. No wonder she kept her face obscured in the general store. Despite the ugly bruise and smudges of dirt, her features were distinctly feminine. Face to face, only a drunk or a fool would mistake her gender. When she failed to respond, he sat down on the edge of the sofa, his weak leg straight.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have to clean the wound.” He submerged one of the cloths into the water, wrung it out, and leaned forward to clear away the dried blood.

  “Can I wipe her face? Aunt Ellen said a lady mustn’t ever go to bed with a dirty face.”

  Caleb nodded and wrung out the other cloth before handing it to Abby. “Careful, she has a bump on her forehead.”

  Abby bit her lip and knelt beside their patient. With rather motherly movements, she started wiping at the various smudges. “She’s really pretty.”

  “Hhhmm.” Caleb folded the towel beneath her arm and clutched the drenched cloth, gingerly squeezing some of the water over the damaged flesh.

  She flinched.

  “Ssshh. It’ll be all right.” Abby swabbed at a stubborn dirt smudge.

  “Abby, I don’t want you to tell anyone about our patient, at least not until I’ve spoken to your uncle about her.” He patted the gash with the towel until he was satisfied with the results, and then poured whiskey over the cut in hopes that it would burn out any infection.

  The woman moaned and her lashes fluttered. For a moment, she came to before spiraling back into unconsciousness.

  After taking hold of her arm, he applied a generous amount of the grease-like salve to the injury. Watching her face for a twitch, he cinched the strap of cloth around her arm.

  “Will she be all right?” Abby finger-brushed the oatmeal-colored strands away from their patient’s face.


  “I think so.” Caleb massaged the pinch at the back of his neck before he stood and studied the woman. Having a woman in his residence was bound to carry its fair share of implications. And complications, of which he had more than enough already.

  “I prayed for her.” Abby grinned at him.

  “That’s very nice of you.” He held out his hand, and taking it, Abby stood.

  “Libby prayed, too.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Right after you told us Mrs. Haddon wasn’t coming anymore. We prayed for another mommy.”

  Caleb lifted Abby and hugged her tight. Soon he’d tell her that seeking the Lord’s face on something wasn’t a guarantee for one’s desired outcome. But not tonight.

  “Princess, it’s late. I want you to go back to bed.”

  “But what if she wakes up?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “You won’t make her leave, will you?” Abby widened her eyes.

  “She can’t stay here forever.”

  “Why not?”

  “Abby, go to bed before Libby notices you’re not there.” That would result in endless tears. And as hard as he tried, his children’s tears undid him.

  Abby frowned, as if she was weighing her options. After planting a kiss on her forehead, he set her down at the bottom stair. “Off to bed.”

  She nodded and floated up the stairs, halting twice to glance at the woman on the sofa. The third time she halted, Caleb cleared his throat, and she dashed to their room.

  He collapsed in the rocker and the collie trotted over to nestle her head on his thigh. Poor girl. He scratched at her ears and grinned as the dog turned into a limp pile of fur at his feet. Fortunately, she appeared less hostile than her master.

  3

  Caleb yawned and stretched to release the pinch in his spine. What was he doing in the rocking chair? After a second, his confusion cleared. The events of last night fell into place. His gaze settled on the woman moaning on the sofa, and he pushed to his feet. Her mumblings beckoned him to her side. He laid his hand on her forehead and found her warm. Despite the cool air, her skin was coated with sweat. Strands of hair clung to her flushed cheeks. She muttered and flailed her good arm at him, her fist narrowly missing his jaw.

  “You’re safe.” He caught her wrist and lowered her arm to her side.

  “No!” She lashed out.

  Caleb ducked another blow. He caught her flapping arm and pushed it down again. All this moving was jarring her wound. Last thing she needed was to start the bleeding again. “Easy now, you’ll be all right.”

  She relaxed and her breathing slowed.

  There wasn’t time to waste. He loaded more logs on the fire to keep the temperature in the room pleasant, and dipped the cloth into the basin of water he’d left beside the sofa. Blinking his gritty eyes, he stifled another yawn. The sofa creaked as he sat down on the edge, and then pressed the cool cloth against her cheek.

  She jerked at the touch of the cloth on her forehead, and opened her fever dazed eyes. “Jewel?” She struggled to her elbows, attempting to sit up.

  “Jewel’s here. Lie down.” He caught her shoulders and pushed her back down.

  For a second she strained against him but relaxed and closed her eyes.

  He continued blotting her face, neck, and arms with cool water—Just as he’d done numerous times with his daughters when they were stuck with influenza last winter. But it was ridiculous to compare this woman to his sweet daughters. When he pressed his knuckles against her forehead, he exhaled.

  “W-water,” Her croak was soft.

  “I’ll fetch you something to drink.” Silence stretched, disturbed only by the occasional crack of firewood in the hearth. He returned with a mug of willow bark tea and slid his hand beneath her neck. “Miss, here drink this.” He brought the mug to her lips. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Her lashes twitched, but instead of opening her eyes, she parted her lips in mute compliance. She swallowed half the contents before Caleb allowed her to lay back. He set the mug on the small table and studied her as she slipped into a peaceful slumber.

  Where Margaret had been brunette and petite, this woman was tall and blonde. Her skin was tanned from too much time passed in the sun. Though lovely, nothing about her hinted at pampered. How had he gotten into such a pickle? Housing the girl—even temporarily—promised bumpy consequences. Again, he wet the cloth, wrung it, and blotted her face.

  

  Grace rolled to her side and clamped her jaw. The throbbing pain in her skull intensified, and she stilled, waiting for it to subside. When she eased one eye open, it took a moment for the surroundings to settle around her. An appliquéd quilt warmed her. Faded pink wallpaper with intertwining ferns covered the walls. A fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth inviting. At the windows, faded curtains were drawn against the outside world. The aroma of coffee brewing teased her nostrils. Where was she? And how had she gotten here? Images of a stranger swirled in her mind, but as she studied her surroundings, there was hardly a sign of masculinity in the room. What kind of scrape had she gotten herself into?

  Disjoined images assailed her. It hadn’t been a dream. The storm. The cold. And then Willie appearing out of nowhere, screaming obscenities before swinging his rifle toward her head. Chills prickled her skin.

  She sucked in a breath and pushed up on her elbow. The movement jarred her injured arm, and she hissed through clenched teeth. The world tilted, but she refused to lie back down. Her muscles panged, screaming in objection at her actions. When everything steadied, she took stock of her surroundings. Aside from the worn sofa she occupied, a rocker stood near the fireplace and an armchair was at the window. A shabby rug covered the floor.

  As she shifted, the quilt slipped and a cool draft caressed her. With a gasp, she clutched the quilt and covered her leg. Thick wool socks sheathed her feet, but her legs were bare. Her heart thundered. A red flannel shirt she’d never before seen was buttoned all the way up to her throat. A man’s shirt. Her mouth dried and she padded her ribs. Her bindings were missing! Her clothes were nowhere in sight.

  Mind made up, she stood and wrapped the quilt around her. Her surroundings spun for a second. Gritting her teeth, she crept toward the lone window, ignoring the way her head complained with every inch she crossed.

  She pulled the curtain aside and found the world cloaked in night. Not a speck of snow in view. Odd. The storm had been unexpected and sudden, but fierce.

  A board whispered from behind.

  Grace whirled. She braced her feet and grabbed the curtain before she made contact with the floor as everything around her faded.

  “Easy now.”

  Less than three yards away, the preacher from the general store gripped a tray in his hands. “You shouldn’t be up.” He remained at the door, gauging her.

  Grace narrowed her eyes. She'd been fine on her own for years and had come to after a fainting spell a time or two. There was no need for a preacher to tell her what to do.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Alive.” She tightened her grip on the quilt as she faced the owner of the flannel shirt. “How did I get here?”

  “Jewel.” He inclined his head toward his feet.

  Her dog squeezed past his legs. “Jewel. Hey, girl.” She patted the collie’s side. The dog had been her confidant and only family since she’d found the pup abandoned alongside the road four years ago.

  “Maybe you should sit down on the sofa.”

  “I don’t need a man to tell me what to do.”

  The preacher cocked his head. “Please have a seat. You need to rest. I brought you something to eat.”

  She sat down in the armchair only because her trembling legs wouldn’t hold her much longer and closed her eyes a moment. “Where am I?” The throb in her arm intensified, but she fought the urge to touch it. As if not checking the festering wound would change its condition. Willie Pratt would pay for the day he double-cros
sed her. Men. Every single one left on God’s green earth was as deceitful as the next.

  “I found you in my backyard two nights ago.” He pulled a small, dainty looking table closer and set the tray on it.

  This close, it was impossible to ignore the meaty aroma drifting from the bowl squatting on the tray. “Two nights?”

  “It was in the middle of the storm. I brought you inside.”

  “I was in the alley at the saloon when I was attacked.”

  Pratt dropped her there. That snake wanted her dead. A no-good, yellow-bellied coward.

  She balled her fists. “Who dressed me?”

  Caleb…Caleb—that was his name—lowered his gaze.

  She’d never seen a man blush. It would’ve been an amusing experience had her tongue not turned to dust when realization hit her. No man had ever undressed her. She choked the quilt with her hands.

  “I thought…since you were wearing men’s clothing…” He rubbed his hands back and forth on his thighs. The preacher shifted his weight, winced and retreated to the door he’d emerged from, favoring his left leg. “I didn’t see anything. When I realized my error, I covered you with the quilt.”

  “How did I get out of the bindings?”

  “I cut them away. Again, I didn’t see anything.”

  “You cut my bindings?”

  “I didn’t…I was…I thought you might breathe easier.” He took another step back.

  “Wait.”

  He turned, one hand gripping the doorjamb.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll be right back.”

  Grace patted her knee, summoning Jewel. She rubbed her dog’s thick fur and pressed her cheek against Jewel’s neck. “Thanks for getting help.”

  Caleb returned with a mug and set it down by the tray. “Can you remember anything?”

  Grace touched the bump on her forehead and winced. Bluebonnets! That explained the invisible spear stabbing in her skull.

  “Not much.”

  He rested his hands on his hips. “You should eat something. I’m sure in your current condition you’ll be able to hold down some broth.”