The Jewel: The Malloy Family, Book 11 Read online

  Mason noted she had healing blisters on her hands. He had only a few moments to digest her thoughts on her beauty before she began cleaning wounds on his shoulder. Pain lanced through him and he squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps if he didn’t look upon such beauty, he could lesson the affects of her doctoring.

  “Have you experience in providing first aid?” He grasped on to the first topic that occurred to him.

  “My mother was a very skilled nurse. She had more than twenty years experience and taught each of her daughters how to administer medical care.” Her voice had tightened.

  “While I am sure she taught you well, right now it appears she forgot to instruct you in the art of medication.” He gritted his teeth.

  “We are in the untamed west, mister. Medication is hard to come by, especially after being on a wagon train for five months. We are lucky to have food and fresh water. I have herbs and plants to use, which will have to suffice.” She moved to his arm, her hands sure and strong.

  “You’re a pioneer?” He couldn’t have been more surprised to hear that piece of information.

  “We were. My sister and I are no longer with the wagon train.” She offered nothing further and his pain-addled mind couldn’t find the energy to push for more.

  He hadn’t met any of the intrepid people who took it upon themselves to trek over two thousand miles to the Oregon Territory. Mass migration was a fascinating subject. Too bad he was not a student of anthropology but rather history. In a hundred years, their travails would be part of history books, but for now, he would simply read about them in newspapers. The Chastain sisters, however, did pique his interest. When he wasn’t in excruciating pain, he would ask her questions about their adventures.

  Charlie dropped to her knees next to his head and pressed a wet cloth onto his forehead. He sighed in relief. The cloth was not cool but it felt marvelous.

  “Thank you, little one.”

  “Please fetch a cup, Charlie. I’m going to roll him onto his back and I’m sure he requires some water.” Isabelle waited until her sister ran off again before she spoke. “Most of your wounds are superficial, but I realize they are causing you pain. However, you have a deep wound on your thigh that likely requires stitches and, more importantly, you have what I believe is a bullet graze on your temple.” She pushed at his shoulder until he rolled onto his back.

  “The mind whirls. I’ve been shot?” He knew the men he had associated with wanted him dead, but he did not remember a gunshot. He specifically remembered not being shot. “Are you quite certain?”

  “My family is from New York and, as I said, my mother was a nurse. I’ve seen gunshots before. There is gunpowder around the surrounding skin. It’s most definitely a gunshot.” She looked into his eyes with more grit and honesty than anyone he’d ever met. “Are you a criminal, sir?”

  If his head hadn’t feel like it would explode, he might have laughed. “I am most assuredly not a criminal, kind lady. My name is Mason Bennett. I’m a university professor from North Carolina.”

  Surprise flashed across her features. “You are a long way from North Carolina.”

  “And you are a long way from New York. It appears we are two travelers far from all things familiar.” He waited while she contemplated his information.

  “After I see to your wounds and your clothing, I believe we need to have a longer discussion about how you came to be so far from home with nothing but the dirt on your face.”

  She didn’t ask any other questions for which he was grateful. The short words he’d exchanged with her had exhausted his already weak state. Mason wasn’t one to avoid physical activities. He participated in many and considered himself to be fit. The grueling trip west had disabused him of that particular notion. He’d been forced to relearn how to use all his muscles. The soreness from the first month of riding still haunted him. He hadn’t cried since he was five years old, but that pain had brought him perilously close to losing his manhood privileges.

  Now he had discovered a new kind of agony, having his skin peeled from his body, and apparently getting shot. In the head. His mind couldn’t reconcile the facts. Trusting his traveling companions had been his first mistake. No, leaving North Carolina to chase a dream had been.

  He had many regrets in his life, but he did not dwell on them for long. The decision to leave everything behind and trek to California was larger and more hideous than any that preceded it. He’d been nosing around gold mining in North Carolina for the last ten years, but much of the time, the prize eluded him.

  Through a friend at the university, he’d heard about the gold strike in California. His interest—nay, his passion—had burst to life. He forced the opportunity, invited himself along with a group of men he barely knew, except one. Now he would pay for that mistake and dearly.

  His savior wrapped his arm and shoulder in clean bandages and tied them off. She continued cleaning his chest and neck, her brow furrowed and lips tight. The younger one flitted around, her curiosity not appeased by anything she saw. She was full of life and a ridiculous amount of energy. Watching her added to his own exhaustion.

  “His chest has a lot of hair.” She was such a helpful young lady. “The blood is stuck in the hair, isn’t it?”

  Isabelle gave her a sharp look. “Why don’t you check on the oxen? Or better yet, make a small fire and boil some water. You know Maman—” She stopped to clear her throat. “You know Maman always insisted on keeping everything sanitary.”

  Mention of their mother quieted the girl like nothing else had. She murmured her acquiescence and darted off to start a fire. Mason was impressed the young woman knew how to ignite a blaze. It had taken him weeks to learn the skill. Isabelle let a breath out through her teeth and the warm air gusted on his skin.

  He wanted to ask questions of her, but now was not the time. He was still naked beneath the blanket and she hadn’t tended to his wounds beneath it. The very thought of that occurrence took his mind off the pain momentarily. She was incredibly beautiful and her close proximity would have caused an extreme physical reaction. If he’d been functioning correctly.

  She worked with meticulous precision, cleaning his wounds of all the dirt, blood and gravel that had been ground into the skin. He let his mind drift as she worked. Soon he would have to explain his failure to her. For now, he would pretend he was a normal man and this was a normal interaction with a lovely lady.

  Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth.

  Chapter Two

  Isabelle couldn’t imagine an odder situation than finding a naked, bleeding stranger in the dirt on the side of the trail. She should be grateful a body on the side of the Oregon Trail was still alive. Mr. Bennett was quite lucky. The bullet furrowed the skin on his temple, but it wasn’t life threatening. Hopefully her experience with healing herbs would help since she had no proper facilities to treat him. Her knowledge of herbs had been nothing but a hobby until they’d headed out west. She never thought she’d have to use that information for such wounds. The sheer brutality of what had been done to Mason, however, could have killed him.

  He’d been shot, beaten, tossed from a horse or a wagon and left for dead. His twang had marked him as a man from the south even before he’d admitted he was from North Carolina. But a university professor? How had he come to be out here alone in such dire circumstances? She wanted to ask him a hundred questions, but kept her silence.

  He had chocolate-brown hair, straight as a pin and long enough to cover his face. When he’d opened his eyes, she had been struck by how lovely they were. Men did not want to be called lovely, but she couldn’t think of another word. Deep, rich brown irises were ringed with amber flecks. She wasn’t one to be turned by a man’s looks. There were exceptions to every rule, and this man was hers. She wondered what he would look like without the dirt, blood and wounds.

  For now, she had to remember what her mothe
r would have done to treat his wounds. There were so many. She started with the largest, where his skin had been ripped open by the force of hitting the ground. There wasn’t enough skin to stitch it closed, but she cleaned it, knowing it would cause him agony, but she had no choice.

  She worked until sweat ran down her face and her fingers cramped. Maman’s nurse’s bag stocked with all her mother’s equipment. It was as if she were there in spirit, guiding Isabelle’s hands. She used the supply of bandages her mother always had on hand. Yet there were more wounds. Charlie hovered, but she kept her curiosity contained, for which Isabelle was grateful. Mr. Bennett was surprisingly quiet. He watched her as she worked or he stared off into the distance as though he couldn’t bear to look at her a moment longer.

  “Charlie, please go find something clean we can use for a few more bandages.” She swiped her forehead on her sleeve. “Big enough for his thigh. That should be the last of it, though.”

  His right thigh had a gash that oozed even as she stitched it closed. Each time the needle penetrated his skin, she winced for him. He was stoic throughout the process, rarely making a noise as she worked. Her sister returned with the old dress, well-worn and soft, that had belonged to her mother. Isabelle’s throat caught.

  “It’s all right, Charlie. She would want us to use it to help Mr. Bennett.” Isabelle waited while her younger sister looked at the garment with reluctance.

  “I know. It’s just damn hard to give away something of hers.” Charlie sounded so very young and she was, in truth. Losing their parents had torn a hole in their hearts that would heal eventually. However, the loss was so fresh, so raw, mere days old. The young girl pressed the dress to her face and breathed in.

  Isabelle’s heart pinched. “She would take the dress off her back to help someone in need. This is the right thing to do.” She smiled sadly. “Would you please tear this into bandages?”

  Charlie nodded and plopped down beside them. Isabelle finished stitching Mr. Bennett’s leg, applied the poultice she’d made and accepted the strips of fabric from her sister as she tore them.

  “Are you nearly finished, Miss Chastain?” His voice startled her. He’d been quiet for the last thirty minutes.

  “Yes, I am.” She tied off the bandage on his thigh. She’d tried to ignore the fact he was naked, but it was difficult considering she was six inches from his manly parts. His skin was reddened and swollen, but at least he was clean and stitched. She was pleased to see her stitches were even and straight. Her mother would have been proud. “How are you feeling?”

  He closed his eyes. “I’ve had better days.”

  She pulled the quilt back up on him. “Lie here for now. I’m going to get the clothes that should fit you.”

  One eye cracked open. “You do have men’s clothing?”

  “Yes.” She got to her feet without explaining more. Frankly, she wasn’t prepared to discuss her father’s death with a stranger. Her legs protested having knelt for so long. She shook out the cramps as she walked toward the wagon.

  Charlie sat a few feet away, watching the man. Isabelle needed a moment to find some peace. Her stomach quivered with the shock. She had just cleaned, stitched and dressed the wounds of a very injured man. A naked man who was more than two thousand miles from home. She had done many things in last six months she never thought she would do. Life had been simple in Brooklyn, but good. Leaving New York had been the right thing to do. It had saved Frankie’s life from the gang boss, Oliver Peck, who had obsessed over her.

  However, her family was now scattered to the winds. Was it worth everything they had endured? To save her sister, yes, it was, but that didn’t mean it was easy. Isabelle prided herself on being strong, but everyone had his or her limits. She had almost reached hers. It was a near thing, close enough for her to taste the collapse on her tongue.

  “Maman, I wish you were here.” She spoke to the empty wagon as she climbed into the back. Her hands were sticky with blood, the remnants of the poultice and dirt and her dress stained with the same. She needed to wash up and change, but for the moment, she simply needed to breathe.

  After a minute, Charlie poked her head around the side of the tarp. “Are you going to give him Papa’s clothes?” Her expression was strained, her usual curse words stowed.

  Isabelle longed to erase the lines from around her sister’s eyes and the bags beneath them. Being responsible for this wagon, the animals, their belongings and, most of all, for Charlie, was the single largest undertaking in Isabelle’s life. Her nineteenth birthday was only a month away and she could not imagine celebrating the event. Her sister Josephine’s twentieth birthday had been last month and they obviously hadn’t been with her either.

  No, Isabelle’s burden was too great for any kind of celebration. She sighed with all the pent-up frustration and anguish burbling inside her. “Yes, we need to give him clothes to wear. We cannot leave him in such a state.”

  “He talks nice.” Charlie climbed up and tucked up beside Isabelle.

  “Yes, he does. He says he teaches at a university.” Isabelle pulled her closer. “We must be diligent and not trust him. We don’t know who he is or how he came to be in this state.”

  Charlie nodded. “He was awful bloody.”

  Isabelle’s hands itched with the dried blood from the stranger’s wounds. “He will be unable to take care of himself for several days. We will need to carry him to the wagon and help him inside. It will be difficult to do with just the two of us.”

  “We took care of Maman and Papa for a week. I think we can do it.” Charlie paused and looked up at her. “Don’t you?”

  Isabelle’s throat tightened. “Yes, we can.” She kissed Charlie’s forehead. “Help me find some clothes.”

  They climbed in farther and opened their parents’ chest. The scents of Papa’s shaving soap and Maman’s rose water washed over them. Isabelle’s eyes pricked with tears and Charlie let loose a small sob.

  “It smells like them.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, it does. We will always have them with us.” She tapped her heart with one finger. “In here.”

  Charlie nodded, tears hanging on the edges of her eyelashes. “This is so hard.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  Isabelle had no response to that. It was the truth.

  “Find clothing for Mr. Bennett, please. I need to wash up a little.” Isabelle busied herself with the canteen of water, leaving Charlie to rummage through the belongings that were all they had left of their beloved parents. The youngest Chastain was stronger than any of them. One day she would show them all just how strong she was.

  For now, they would do what they had to. Survival was something Isabelle hadn’t understood before. Now it was branded onto her heart and soul, never to be forgotten.

  She pulled off her dress and used a clean rag to wipe off the sweat, dirt and blood. They had to move Mr. Bennett and she didn’t want to dirty another dress. With reluctance, she donned the dirty dress again. No doubt they would be settled here for the night. The stranger was in no shape to travel. It would take all they had to move him to the wagon.

  Charlie sat on the end of the wagon, her legs swinging. A pile of clothes and a pair of boots sat beside her. Isabelle pressed a hand to her belly to quell the trembling. She was exhausted and wanted to do nothing more than crawl beneath the quilts and sleep. Yet she couldn’t. She hadn’t been able to sleep since they had left their parents behind in the ground for their eternal sleep.

  They had a long trip to return to Fort John for Josephine and then to the Wyoming territory to find Frankie and John. It would be a journey that would test their mettle like nothing else had. Sleeping would be had when all work was done. They might not make it if they faltered even for a moment.

  She straightened her shoulders and clenched her hands. Isabelle could not, would not, fail. She would bring her family together again.

>   “Let’s see if we can get some clothes on Mr. Bennett and then drag him back to the wagon. Leave the boots for now. We will need something to drag him on, though. Why don’t we use the oxen’s blanket? That at least is already dirty.” She took the bundle of clothes and jumped from the wagon. Charlie followed with the blanket, her nose scrunched up.

  “It stinks.”

  “It doesn’t matter how it smells. We only need it to be sturdy enough to drag a grown man across this terrain. The other blankets will tear.”

  “Oh.” Charlie held the blanket at arm’s length. “I still don’t want to smell the damn thing.”

  A smile played around Isabelle’s lips to hear her sister cursing. It would be some time before either of them recovered. They definitely would never be the same again.

  Mr. Bennett was right where they’d left him. His eyes were closed, but they flew open when they approached him. “I thought perhaps you’d left. I certainly wouldn’t blame you.”

  “My parents taught us to help those in need. You would die out here if we did.” Isabelle kept her voice neutral, but inside she wanted to rail at the heavens. This man should have died and her parents live. Yet the fates seemed fit to do what they wanted.

  “Your parents were wise.” Mr. Bennett eyed the clothing in her hands. “Are you planning to dress me?”

  “You are not strong enough to do it yourself.” She refused to allow him to see how much the possibility made her stomach twist.

  “Ballocks. I appreciate the clothing very much, but I will not allow myself to stoop so low as to be unable to pull on a pair of drawers.” He rolled to his back with a wince. “At least let me keep my dignity.”

  Isabelle handed him the drawers and turned her back. Charlie tried to peek, but Isabelle took her younger sister’s shoulders and held her in place. “You’ll have plenty of time to look upon a naked man when you get married. Be polite and give him some privacy.”

  Charlie harrumphed but didn’t attempt to disregard the orders. Isabelle closed her eyes and listened to the sound of Mr. Bennett struggling. His breath grew ragged but the sound of cloth rustling continued.