The Prospect: The Malloy Family, Book 10 Read online

  Mr. Chastain looked startled. “Mon Dieu. This is true.”

  “Then let her make her decisions and respect them.” Declan figured he was already knee-deep in shit…he might as well say what else was on his mind.

  Jo’s father stared at Declan, then turned his gaze away when his two daughters stepped up beside him. Declan didn’t know if what he said made a difference or not.

  “Do not go inside, girls. She is contagious.”

  “Maman went inside.” Charlie stuck out her lower lip.

  “Maman was wearing gloves and a mask. As a nurse, she knows what precautions to take. You do not. Stay here.” Mr. Chastain knocked on the door and spoke without opening it. “Everything is here, Marie.” He placed his hand flat on the door and closed his eyes.

  Declan glanced at the girls and immediately turned away from the sight. The Chastain family was full of too many emotions, brimming like an overfull cup. He couldn’t imagine being part of something like that. Nor would he want to be part of it. A family who fell to pieces when they had to separate. He’d survived without his mother. It hadn’t been easy, but he hadn’t fallen into a weeping puddle either.

  “Monsieur.” The older man stepped up beside him.

  Declan didn’t want to keep talking to the man. He just wanted her family gone. Seeing them daily reminded him of the mistakes of his past. “Sometimes things happen and you do what you need to do.”

  “I am entrusting my daughter’s life to you. This is not done easily. If anything happens to her, I will find you and no one else ever will.” The soft-spoken father surprised Declan with his fierce threat.

  There wasn’t anything he could say to respond, so he waited it out. He wasn’t going to discuss the false marriage. He would wait for Mrs. Chastain to make that decision. Mr. Chastain finally turned and gathered his other daughters, leaving Declan alone. He didn’t know what to make of the Chastains, and if he were honest, he was glad they were leaving. With them went the guilt he struggled with. He wasn’t glad to be left behind, but he would get by. He always did.

  He looked at the items they left behind, stacked neatly beside the door. After Mrs. Chastain left, he’d bring it all inside. The chair would be useful considering there was only a cot inside, not big enough for him alone, much less two people. Jo would heal faster if she was comfortable. That seemed a good reason to let her have the cot, even if it didn’t have a mattress. They could cobble one together with the pile of blankets the Chastain sisters left.

  “Callahan.”

  Declan turned to find Buck Avery walking toward him with a saddle, the one from the horse he’d bought in Missouri. Where the hell was the horse?

  “I dropped your gelding off at the livery. He gets a dollar a week to board a horse. You’ll need to pay him or he’ll sell off the horse.” Buck set the saddle on the chair. “Those folks sure are leaving a lot with their girl.”

  Declan shouldn’t feel the need to defend the Chastains, but the words jumped to his tongue anyway. “They want to be sure she’ll be all right. Most of us don’t have family like that.”

  “That’s the God’s honest truth.” Buck took off his hat and smacked his thigh with it. “It’s a fair shame that one had to catch typhoid. It ain’t something we can have on the trip, though. Malloy would know that.”

  Declan bit his tongue. “Good thing I ain’t Malloy.”

  Buck’s expression hardened. “You either stay behind on your own or with the girl. You made that choice yourself. I have your pay for the weeks you worked.”

  “Keep it. Or better yet, give it to me and I’ll give it to Josephine Chastain.” Declan didn’t want to be beholden to Buck, no matter how much people liked the wagon master. He was a jackass.

  Buck pulled out the money from his pocket and slapped it into Declan’s palm. “I trust Malloy with my life, but I think he was off his mark when he recommended you.”

  “Monsieur Callahan has made some bad choices, but he has a good soul.” Mrs. Chastain appeared, pulling off the gloves and mask she wore. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. At least she wasn’t crying in front of him.

  “You don’t know this man, Miz Chastain.” Buck scowled. “He kidnapped Miz Francesca.”

  “Sometimes we take the wrong path, Monsieur Avery. Only the strongest are able to change their course.” Mrs. Chastain sniffed and put her chin in the air. “She is clean and needs to be comfortable. Please bring her things inside and see to it, Monsieur Callahan. I will return in the morning to check on her and bring the other visitor we discussed. Please use a mask and gloves when you tend to her. It will help stop the spread of the disease if you are not yet infected.”

  Declan nodded. “I’m sure I’ve got something to use. I’ll need to get my—”

  Charlie came running up with a burlap bag in her hand. The crazy curls on her head flew in the wind as she skidded to a halt. “Mr. Callahan, your things.” She huffed out a breath. “Damn well don’t want to leave your things behind.”

  Declan’s lips twitched at the young cussing woman. She would drive a man crazy one day. Yet she brought his belongings, not just her sister’s, which demonstrated she was good people.

  “Charlotte, you must stop cursing,” Mrs. Chastain admonished. “It is unbecoming for a young lady to use such language.”

  “Hell, Maman, I’m just getting started.” Charlie grinned. Despite their over-emotional nonsense, the Chastains were a one-of-a-kind family.

  He took the burlap bag from her. Its light weight spoke to his life. A change of clothes, an extra shirt and a few basic food staples. Nothing more than a pound or two. Perhaps one day he might have more than that, but for now, it was everything he had.

  “Thank you.” He was surprised to see the girl blush. For all her “worldly” language, this youngest Chastain sister was still an innocent.

  “Okay, ’bye.” She ran back whence she came, her frizzy hair waving to him as she disappeared from view.

  “Monsieur Avery, please escort me back to the wagon, s’il vous plaît.” Mrs. Chastain took away the potential argument brewing. She was a smart lady, one who had just left her daughter with a stranger. The woman had a backbone of steel.

  Declan glanced around and breathed his own sigh of relief. They were finally gone. He needed to bring everything into the small building and start his new nursing career. In the morning, they would fake marry and he would be a fake husband. One thing was real, though—the next few weeks would be hell.

  Chapter Three

  “Stop fighting me, woman. You need to drink or you’re going to waste away to nothing,” Declan growled in her ear. “Don’t make me force it down your throat.”

  Jo struggled to open her eyes. She was swimming in a dark ocean, trying desperately to get to the surface, but every time she thought she was close, she slipped back down. Declan was nearby, yelling at her, yanking her up. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks and she scratched at his arm, desperate for air.

  “Breathe, dammit, breathe!” He slapped her back so hard, she coughed until air finally went down her throat.

  She leaned against him, not knowing where she was or what was happening. Jo was only aware of the big man holding her, his hands rubbing big circles on her back.

  “Ah, lass, you are in a bad way, aren’t you?” His voice was raspy. “But you’re tougher than most men I know.”

  Her head lolled back and she managed to crack open her eyes. Declan wore no mask, his face shaven, clear of the bushy black beard he’d worn since they met. She blinked, shocked by the visage revealed by the lack of facial hair.

  Declan Callahan was stunningly handsome.

  Perhaps it was her fogged mind playing tricks on her. It was bad enough she had been suffering from secret fantasies of the man. Seeing he was altogether the best-looking man she’d ever seen was ridiculous. She closed her eyes again.

  “Don’t go back to sleep, Jo. I need you to take in some water.” He held her neck in his large hand, more gently than she
could have imagined. “It’s been more than a day since you drank.”

  She opened her eyes to slits, choosing to look at a spot on the wall over his shoulder. He dribbled cool water into her mouth and she swallowed, nearly overcome by how thirsty she was. Declan pulled the cup away and she whimpered.

  “You drink too much and you’re going to puke on my trousers again. It took me an hour to get the smell out.” He helped her back down onto the pillow.

  “I vomited on you?” The sound of her voice shocked her. It was as though she’d been gargling gravel.

  “You did, but there have been many things you’ve done in the last three weeks.” His lips twisted. “You probably don’t want to hear all the details.”

  She definitely didn’t want to hear the details. His words sank in and she had a moment where she was completely flummoxed.

  Three weeks. Three weeks!

  The last thing she remembered was her mother saying goodbye, and then nothing until this moment. Typhoid. She had typhoid and Declan had been exposed, so he elected to stay and take care of her. Yet he was also supposed to be wearing a mask and gloves. He was doing neither.

  She touched his cheek. “Mask.”

  “The damn mask was itchy and it made me sweat. Then I got a rash from it, so I had to shave off my beard.” He didn’t look happy about the shaving part.

  “Handsome.” The word popped out before she could stop it.

  Both his brows went up. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that. I’m a big ugly Irishman with a crooked nose and a questionable past.”

  She shook her head. “Friend.”

  His expression became one of surprise and a touch of vulnerability. “I’ve not had…do you really…a friend? Are ye daft, lass?”

  She loved to hear his accent. It was a soft lilt that grew deeper when he was agitated. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t heard Irish accents before. She had grown up in New York after all. There wasn’t an accent she hadn’t heard.

  “Friend,” she repeated. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she took his hand in her own. Jo hadn’t known this man six weeks ago and now he was her lifeline. He was her first friend, whether or not he believed her.

  She slept.

  Declan’s back was paining him something awful. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in more than three weeks. Most times he slept in the chair, keeping a watch on her. She slept almost all the time, although it was not a comfortable rest. She thrashed and moaned, fighting the fever and pain that gripped her body. She’d lost ten pounds at least, not that she’d had that much to lose. The woman had been tall and thin to start with—now she was downright skinny. He had made soup from turnips and dried beef, but she hadn’t been awake long enough to eat any.

  The next time she woke, he was going to pour the damn soup down her throat if he had to. Or at least pinch her until she got some soup inside her. The woman was going to die from not eating or drinking if he wasn’t careful. Caring for Jo had resurrected memories he had forgotten. How to care for someone who was ill had come back to him without effort. His mother’s teachings had lain dormant for more than a dozen years. Her death had been the turning point in his life, the end of his childhood, such as it was, and the beginning of adulthood at the ripe old age of nine.

  His father, Michael “Mick” Callahan, had been around at that point, but he had never been much of a parent. Enough to smack Declan around, to teach him to fight and steal. Beyond that, he was another drunk Irishman who worked when he needed money for booze or women.

  He was also a murderer.

  The death of Eileen Callahan might have gone unnoticed or dismissed by the police in New York, but Declan knew better. His father had strangled his mother after she refused to give him money. Declan had heard the argument, the sound of the slap, the crunch of her bones as she fell down the stairs. Oh yes, Mick Callahan was a murderer.

  Now he was dead, and the one person who hated him worse than Declan, Oliver Peck, had been responsible. The only constant in his life had been shadows and turmoil. Declan’s life had taken so many strange turns and he’d been subject to the dark fingers of fate for so long, he never expected anything good to happen. If he didn’t hope, then he couldn’t be disappointed when bad things happened.

  One dismal moment, when Mick begged Peck for another extension on his loan, the path of Declan’s life changed for the second time. Because he’d been a party to the crime, and he was already adept at stealing, Peck had forced Declan into his gang. Now, five years later, Peck was also dead, killed by Declan. It was a vicious circle that never seemed to get any better.

  Now after a third hard right turn in his life, Declan had lost his first legitimate job and spent his time keeping a typhoid victim alive. Not just any typhoid victim, the sister of his last job for Peck. Francesca was as tough as hell, and so was every one of the females in her family. Jo might even be tougher than her older sister. He owed the Chastains for what he’d done. No matter how much penance he had served, it wasn’t enough. Declan accepted his sins and knew a lifetime of good deeds would not make up for what he’d done to the family. Regardless if he had killed Peck, the man who had chased, threatened and hurt her.

  Because Declan had done the same.

  Somewhere deep inside, he remembered what his mother had taught him. Eileen Callahan had been a good woman, a talented midwife and a loving mother. She tried to keep him on the straight and narrow, but Declan was never one to be controlled. He and trouble were bosom friends, always hand in hand.

  Twelve years after his mother’s death, Declan finally listened to the small voice deep inside him. The echo of a mother’s love thrummed through him, plucking at his heartstrings until he had no choice but to listen. She had guided him for the first nine years of life, or tried to, and now, so many years later, he was honoring her memory.

  She would have been proud of his choice to take care of Jo. It was the first unselfish thing he’d done that he could remember. Although it wasn’t truly unselfish. Helping her was a redemption of sorts for the dark stains on his soul. He had done many things in his life he wasn’t proud of, bad things, including hurting people. The one thing he’d never done, ironically, was kill someone…until he shot Oliver Peck.

  He ran his hands down his face, still surprised to find no beard on his chin. Then he remembered what she’d said. Handsome. Him! His ugly mug could frighten children and she called him handsome. She hadn’t been wearing her spectacles, after all. That explained her temporary foolishness. Or the fever had addled her brain.

  “Declan.” Her husky voice startled him. The sickness had scratched at every bit of her, including her melodious voice, not that he would ever tell her he thought she had a lovely voice. He’d always thought her as beautiful as any woman he’d met and now he had done more for her than any female he’d been intimate with. Their connection now ran deeper than a purely physical one. He was embarrassed to have taken care of her nude form, cleaning up after her exquisitely formed body.

  “You’re awake again, lass.” He reached for the soup. “You need to eat.”

  “Not hungry.” She tried to sit up but failed. “What’s wrong with me?”

  He helped her into a sitting position, her bones so fragile beneath his hands. “You haven’t eaten in days and the fever is taking a bite out of you every minute of every hour.”

  She snorted. “You need to stop letting it bite me, then.”

  Oh boy. He took the bowl of soup, now lukewarm, which was perfect. When he put the spoon up to her mouth, she didn’t open her lips. “Eat, Jo.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  He huffed out a breath and closed his eyes, the grit from too little sleep making them sting. “Please, lass.”

  The sound of slurping surprised him. His eyes popped open to see the soup disappearing into her mouth. He was surprised but took advantage of the opportunity. He spooned more soup into her, getting at least half a dozen good mouthfuls in before she turned her face away.

  “Has i
t really been that long?” Her eyes were a glassy brown, shining in the lamplight.

  “Aye. Three weeks.”

  She looked stricken and he wanted to take the words back, even if they were true. “I think you’ve survived the worst of it. The fever doesn’t seem to want to let you go, though.”

  He set the bowl of soup down and picked up the cloth in the washbasin, wringing out the cool water. As he wiped her face for the thousandth time, he hummed beneath his breath. He knew the contours of her body better than his own, the curve of her jaw, the slight tilt of her ears, the tiny spot between her collarbone and shoulder he wanted to kiss.

  Declan, foolish man that he was, had developed a liking for an unconscious woman. Not only because he had been with her more than any other person in his life, but because she was everything he wasn’t. Smart, strong, courageous and kind. She had taught him who he wanted to be. Now he was a cow-eyed fool over her.

  “The wagons are gone.” It wasn’t a question and it made him worry she didn’t remember her family leaving, albeit tearfully. What else did she not remember?

  “Long gone. I sent word to your sister and Malloy, but I haven’t heard back.” He continued wiping the sweat from her skin without even thinking about what he was doing. It had become second nature.

  She blinked up at him, looking for all the world like a tiny owl lost in the woods. He threw the rag in the washbasin and scooped her up in his arms. Other than a little squeak, she didn’t make a noise or protest as he settled into the rocking chair with Jo on his lap. He’d been wanting to do just that since he saw the damn chair.

  It was a small piece of heaven. One that made that sleeping soul inside him shift dangerously close to waking. He didn’t want the emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from holding her. She was sized perfectly for his arms, even if he outweighed her by a hundred pounds.