Emma and the Outlaw Page 3

  Steven was careful to finish chewing and swa He couldn’t say he was in danger because Chloe might figure out that he was wanted, and if anybody started going through the posters down at the marshal’s office, he could end up wearing a rope. Unfortunately he’d already given his name to the doctor, while his defenses were down. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “the truth is, I’m a lawman, and I’ve got to keep that pistol handy.”

  “If you’re a lawman,” Chloe countered, “where’s your badge?”

  Steven thought fast. For a Fairfax, he wasn’t a very good liar. “I must have lost it in the blast,” he said.

  Chloe didn’t look convinced. “I’m still not going to let you lie in here with a gun in your hand, Mr. Fairfax. This is a respectable house.”

  Steven had finished his supper, and Chloe, who had been seated beside his bed in a ladderback chair, stood to take his tray. “What time is it?” he wanted to know. The darkness at the windows could have been that of twilight or of early dawn.

  “Six-thirty in the evening,” Chloe answered shortly. She nodded toward another chair, where what remained of Steven’s long canvas coat was draped. “What we found on and around you we put in the pocket of that coat. And there wasn’t any badge.”

  With that, she crossed the room and walked out, closing the door behind her.

  Steven lay back in the flickering light of the kerosene lantern burning on his bedside table and wondered how close Macon was to catching him alone in a room with pansies on the walls, unable to defend himself.

  Fulton laid a heavy hand on Emma’s knee, there in the larger of Chloe’s two parlors, and Emma quickly set it away.

  “God’s eyeballs, Emma,” Fulton complained in a sort of whiny whisper, “we’re practically engaged!”

  “It’s not proper to talk about God’s anatomy,” Emma said stiffly, squinting at the needlework in the stand in front of her before plunging the needle in. “And if you don’t keep your hands to yourself, you’ll just have to go home.”

  Fulton gave an exaggerated sigh. “You’d think a girl would learn something, living in the same house with Chloe Reese.”

  Emma’s dark blue eyes were wide with annoyance when she turned them on Fulton. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant, Fulton.”

  “A man has a right to a kiss now and then, when he’s willing to promise the rest of his life to a woman!”

  Emma narrowed her eyes, planning to point out that he wasn’t the only one with a lifetime on the line, but before she could speak, Fulton grabbed her and pressed his dry mouth to hers.

  She squirmed, wondering why on earth those romantic English novels spoke of kissing as though it were something wonderful, and when she couldn’t get free, she poked Fulton in the hand with her embroidery needle.

  Emma calmly rethreaded her needle and went back to embroidering her nosegay. It was a lovely thing of pink, lavender, and white flowers, frothed in baby’s breath. It was never good to let a man get too familiar. “Good night, Fulton,” she said.

  Stiffly, Fulton stood. “Won’t you even do me the courtesy of walking me to the gate?” he grumbled.

  Thinking of the respectability that would be hers if she were to marry Fulton someday, Emma suppressed a sigh, secured her needle in the tightly drawn cloth, and rose to her feet. Her arm linked with his, she walked him to the gate.

  The night was speckled with stars and scented with the fragrance of the nearby lake, and Emma had a romantic turn of heart. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Fulton’s cheek.

  He looked very pleased.

  She touched his wounded hand in apology. “I’m sorry I stuck you with my needle,” she said.

  Fulton caught her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth. He kissed her knuckles lightly, and the tickling sensation made her shiver, though she felt none of the delicious things novels promised. His words were anything but poetic. “A man has certain needs, Emma,” he said, after clearing his throat loudly. “I do hope you won’t turn out to be so reserved in our marriage chamber.”

  Emma favored him with a sweet smile, but her voice was firm when she said again, “Good night.” She saw no need to remind him that a formal agreement had yet to be made.

  Reluctantly, Fulton left, opening the gate and disappearing down the street. Emma hurried back into the house, searching for Chloe.

  She found her adoptive mother in the small parlor, listening to the delicate strains of a music box, a dreamy expression on her artfully embellished face.

  When Chloe saw Emma, she closed the inlaid ivory lid of the music box and smiled. “Hello, darling. Did Fulton leave?”

  “Yes,” Emma answered, smoothing her skirts before she sat in the chair opposite Chloe’s.

  “Good. I can’t think what you see in that lumbering baboon.”

  Emma was used to Chloe’s blunt opinions, and she was unruffled. Indeed, there were times when she herself thought Fulton rather awkward. “He’s a gentleman,” she said, overlooking the fact that she’d had to spear the man with an embroidery needle to make him remove his hands from her person. “Tell me about the saloon explosion. I’ve been waiting all afternoon to hear what happened.”

  Chloe sighed wearily. “Old Freddy Fiddengate was celebrating his birthday. He made a wish and blew on a dynamite fuse, but the flame didn’t go out.”

  Emma’s eyes were wide, and one hand was pressed to her mouth. “Was anyone killed?”

  “No, but we’ve got a fellow upstairs that’s hurt pretty bad. Doc says he has cracked ribs, and he was cut up by broken glass.”

  Emma shuddered, imagining some poor derelict lying upstairs in one of Chloe’s guest rooms, suffering.

  Chloe went on with her account. “Charlie Simmons has a broken leg—he was standing at the bar, as usual, swilling that rotgut whiskey they sell over there—and Philo DeAngelo lost two toes. Everybody else just got the wind knocked out of them.”

  Touching Chloe’s hand, Emma spoke softly. “You’re exhausted. Why don’t you go to bed, and I’ll make you some hot milk.”

  Chloe made a face. “You know I can’t stand that stuff. And besides, I’ve got to go back over to the Stardust and make sure things are all right. I have my girls to think about, you know.”

  Emma knew from long experience that there would be no talking Chloe into staying home if she wanted to go out. “Very well, then, go ahead,” she said. “I’ll drink the hot milk myself.”

  Rising from her chair, Chloe shook her head as though in amazement. “You’re dull as a toothless old woman, Emma,” she said. “You should be out there in the moonlight, letting some handsome young man kiss you and hold your hand. And I’m not talking about that stuffy banker, either.”

  “I have no desire to be kissed,” Emma pointed out primly, already on her way to the staircase.

  “That’s part of the problem,” Chloe fussed. “Personally, I think you’re just trying to show the world you aren’t like me.”

  Emma paused midway up the stairs. Despite the fact that she managed a thriving brothel, there probably wasn’t a kinder soul than Chloe in the whole of the territory. “I don’t care what people think,” she replied, but she knew that was a lie and so did Chloe.

  Candlelight flickered in Emma’s spacious room as she finished her preparations for bed. The kerosene lamp would have given better light, but the soft glow of a burning wick made her feel like Jane Eyre. She could easily imagine that Mr. Rochester was just down the hallway.

  Humming softly to herself, she picked up the brass candlestick and set out for a peek at the poor vagrant recovering in the guest room.

  She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink if she didn’t look in on him first. It was the only Christian thing to do.

  Emma walked carefully, so as not to spill wax on the rugs and incur the wrath of Daisy, Chloe’s cook and housekeeper.

  Outside her room she listened for a snore, but heard nothing. She opened the first
door on the other side of the hallway, which was directly opposite her own, and crept quietly into the guest room.

  Emma could see a vague shape spread out on the bed, but she heard no breathing, and that worried her. According to Chloe, most men snored loudly when they slept.

  She inched closer and closer to the bed. “Sir?” she whispered, not wanting to alarm the pitiful indigent. “Sir, are you awae?”

  There was no sound from the patient.

  Emma was now standing beside the bed. She bent, the candle providing the only light since there was no moon, and the unthinkable happened. The candle flame flicked against the gauze bandages covering the man’s rib cage, and a blaze leaped to life.

  For a moment, Emma was too horrified to move. By the time she’d recovered enough to set the candle down, the fire had gotten a good start.

  The man awakened with a shouted curse, and the sound broke Emma’s paralysis. Using the palms of her hands, she began beating out the flame.

  The invisible stranger gave a howl and then gasped, “For God’s sake, let me burn!”

  Emma continued striking him until the last glowing ember of fire was gone, then turned to light the kerosene lamp with her candle. This brighter radiance showed a handsome man in his early thirties, his arms and chest covered in charred bandages, his ribs wrapped tightly with what looked like strips of an old bed sheet.

  He was, in fact, the same man Emma had encountered beside the railroad tracks earlier that day, and she felt her stomach slam against her throat with a sort of sweet terror.

  “I’m so sorry,” Emma said breathlessly.

  The man did not look the least bit receptive to apology. His brown-green eyes snapped with fury as he dragged himself to a sitting position, and even in the light of the lantern, Emma could see he’d gone pale with pain. “I knew somebody like you once. He was a guard in a Yankee prison camp.”

  Holding her wrapper closed with one hand, Emma dragged up a chair, ignoring his uncharitable remark.

  “I’m afraid those bandages will have to be changed,” she said. “Since Doc Waverly is usually only sober in the daytime, I’d better do it myself.”

  He regarded her distrustfully.

  Emma sighed. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

  He was squinting at her now. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Emma Chalmers,” Emma responded, folding her hands in her lap. “We met briefly this morning. Who are you?”

  He shoved a hand through his sweaty, dusty brown hair. “Steven Fairfax.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Fairfax?”

  “Hell, I’m just fine. I come into this damned place, looking for a drink and a… a drink… and I end up getting blown halfway to perdition by some drunk celebrating his birthday. Then you walk in and set me on fire—”

  “Oh, do stop grumbling,” Emma interrupted impatiently. “You’re not the first man who’s ever been caught in an explosion. Now, let’s get rid of those bandages.”

  Fairfax scowled at her and pulled the singed blankets up to his chin. “I’ll just wait until the doctor sobers up, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “It isn’t,” mma said in a firm voice as she rose from her chair. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  With that, she took her candlestick and left the room. When she returned she had several bed sheets from the linen closet with her, along with scissors and gauze and the bottle of laudanum Doc Waverly had given her for monthly cramps.

  Ignoring Steven’s intractable glare, she set the medicine on the bedside table, next to the lamp, and spread out the other things at the foot of the bed. Steeling herself against the smell and the gore that might lie beneath those bandages, Emma began cutting them away, a process Mr. Fairfax endured in wary silence.

  The man’s chest had more stitch marks than the sampler Emma had embroidered the month before, and the wounds looked angry. It was no wonder, since Doc Waverly hadn’t bothered to wash the patient before attacking him with a needle.

  When she’d removed everything but the sheet strips girding his ribs, Emma stepped back from the bedside. “You’ll have to have a sponge bath before we go on, Mr. Fairfax. There’s a question of infection here.”

  To her surprise, the recalcitrant visitor was looking at her in a different way—his hazel eyes were twinkling with weary mischief, and his voice was lower. Smoother. “How much does that cost? A sponge bath, I mean?”

  Emma frowned, puzzled. “Cost?”

  Fairfax smiled at her, showing that fine set of teeth Emma remembered from their earlier encounter. He looked rather like a gentleman when he did that, instead of a trail bum down on his luck. “You know.”

  Emma had no time to debate. “I’m sorry,” she said, on her way out the door. “I’m afraid I don’t.” She left the room again and came back soon after with a basin of hot water, soap, a washcloth and a towel.

  “You really are a great deal of trouble, Mr. Fairfax.”

  “Steven,” he corrected.

  Emma looked at him in confusion. “Steven.”

  “May I call you Emma?”

  “No,” Emma replied, uncomfortable with his familiarity. “You certainly may not. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  He grinned as though she’d said something funny. “Proper?” he repeated, and he chuckled.

  Emma lathered up the washcloth and set about cleaning him up as best she could. Of course, she wasn’t about to deal with any part of his anatomy besides his arms and chest.

  “There’s money over there, in the pocket of my coat,” he said, when Emma was rinsing away the soap.

  “Good,” Emma said disinterestedly. “You’ll want to buy yourself another set of clothes. I’d be glad to do that for you on my way home from the library tomorrow.”

  He watched her, his eyes dancing in his wan face. “How long have you been working here?”

  She wrung out the washcloth. “Working here? I don’t work here—I’m the townibrarian. This is my home.”

  At that Steven gave a hoarse cough of laughter. “You’re a librarian? That’s a new one.”

  Emma was cutting a sheet into strips. “A new what?”

  “Listen, when you’re through with these bandages, I could use a little comforting.”

  She was bent over her work, carefully rewrapping his left arm. “We have some whiskey downstairs, but you probably won’t need it because the laudanum will make you sleep. Perhaps I could read to you for a while, or—”

  “Read to me? What kind of place is this?”

  “It’s a home, Mr. Fairfax,” Emma answered, finishing one arm and starting in on the other. Fortunately, the patient had sustained no burns of any importance, though some of the hair on his chest had been singed away.

  “You live here, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. Why else would I be wandering around the place in my nightgown and wrapper?”

  He feigned bewilderment. “Why, for that matter, would you set an innocent man on fire?”

  Emma had finished the last bandage and was inspecting the wrapping around his ribs. It was charred in places, but she didn’t want to remove it, since it appeared secure. “You’re certainly one for holding a grudge, aren’t you, Mr. Fairfax?”

  “Steven.”

  “Steven, then.” She poured laudanum into a spoon and extended it.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?” he asked, dutifully accepting the medicine and making a face. “What the devil’s going on here, Miss Whatever-your-name-is?”

  Emma was miffed. After all, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t done everything she could to rectify her earlier mistake. “What would I have to joke about?”

  He started to laugh again. “You really are a librarian!” he said, and then he laughed harder.

  Emma thought he must be slightly insane. Perhaps he’d escaped from an asylum somewhere. She stepped back, out of reach.

  Steven Fairfax recovered his sobriety, though only with obvious effort. “What about the woman who was in here ea
rlier? What’s she, a schoolmarm?”

  At last Emma realized what Mr. Fairfax had been thinking. He must have seen Chloe in her working clothes. She drew herself up to her imperious height of five feet, six inches, and fixed him in a glare. “If you weren’t so sorely injured,” she said evenly, “I would slap you.”

  The laudanum was beginning to take affect, and Mr. Fairfax yawned expansively. “You’ve already set me on fire and then tried to beat me to death. A simple slap would probably be refreshing.”

  Fury surged through Emma’s system to snap in her eyes. “Don’t worry, Mr. Fairfax. You’ll be quite safe from me in the future.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  Emma got as far as the door before duty made her pause. “Do you need to use the chamber pot?”

  “Yes,” Steven answered shortly.

  Emma stomped back over to the bed, reached beneath it for the lidded china pot, and set it none too gently in his lap. “Good night, Mr. Fairfax,” she said, blowing out the kerosene lamp with a huff and marching out of the room.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Steven set the chamber pot on the floor beside the bed and sank back onto his pillows.

  Emma.

  He smiled in the darkness, thinking what a fool he’d made of himself. Because of Chloe, he’d assumed he was in a whorehouse, and he’d taken Emma for a fresh young flower in the madam’s bouquet. Instead she was a librarian, and there was every likelihood that no man had ever laid a hand on her.

  Steven was glad about that, even though a part of him wished for the tender consolations a whore might have provided.

  He closed his eyes and remembered how it was when she’d washed him. Just thinking about it made him harden, and he arranged his legs accordingly.

  He was surprised when the door opened again, just a crack.

  “Mr. Fairfax?” It was Emma’s voice.

  He considered pretending to be asleep, in the hope that she would come and stand at his bedside, but in the end he decided against it. For all he knew, she had a candle in her hand. “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering—well—are you suffering?”

  “Yes,” he answered, in all truth.