My Heart's Desire (19 page)

"Do you think they believed you?" Ethan asked.

"Who knows? Her stunt with the gun underscored my warnings, but Detra's clever. She knows how to make herself seem harmless." He rubbed his neck tiredly, wincing when he touched the scratch.

"You're bleeding," Rennie said as he removed his hand.

Surprised, Jarret looked at his palm. A smear of blood ran diagonally across the heart of it. He let Rennie take him by the wrist and lead him to the loveseat. He also noticed that Ethan was watching Rennie's fussing with great interest. Over the top of Rennie's bent head Jarret scowled at his friend.

Rennie was quite aware of the interplay between Jarret and Ethan. She ignored Ethan's chuckle and dipped her handkerchief into Jarret's drink.

"Hey!" he said. "That was perfectly good whiskey."

"Now it's a perfectly good astringent." She sat beside him and began cleaning the scratch with the damp linen. "This scratch goes into your scalp," she said. "You
are
fortunate to have an ear."

Her fingers were gentle as she brushed aside his hair to examine Dee's handiwork. Jarret had a difficult time hiding his pleasure from Ethan. He flinched when she touched the alcohol to a deeper cut. "Be careful. That hurts."

"My sister's having a baby in the next room," she said.
"That
hurts."

"She has a point," Ethan said.

As if on cue Michael screamed with the pain she'd been swallowing for a long time. Rennie saw both men pale. "It won't be much longer," she told Ethan. "That sounds like Michael's last hurrah."

Ethan felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He sat down heavily and drummed his fingers against the curved arm of the chair. He was oblivious to everything but the sounds coming from the bedchamber.

"How do you know it won't be long?" Jarret whispered to Rennie.

"I just know," she said. She applied more alcohol to Jarret's wound, following the scratch from his scalp to where it disappeared beneath his shirt. "I've always known about Michael." She hesitated, uncertain if she wanted to tell him, uncertain if he would believe her or understand. "Sometimes I can feel her pain."

Jarret's head turned to the side, and he studied Rennie's strained and solemn features. He remembered her frantic, mad attempts to leave the house, driven, or pulled, by something outside herself. He had thought then that it had only been about seeing Hollis; he realized now that it hadn't been. She had wanted,
needed,
to see her sister.

Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, Rennie pulled her eyes away from Jarret's and bent her head to examine his wound. "You should take off your shirt," she said. "I think she gouged your shoulder, didn't she?"

"I don't know what she did. Everything happened so fast. But I'm not taking off my shirt."

Rennie shrugged. She opened the first few buttons of his cambric shirt and slipped her hand beneath his collar. "How in the world did she get her scissors under here? You'd think she'd have ripped your shirt." She found the deeper wound with her alcohol-soaked handkerchief.

"Dammit, woman!" Jarret swore, pulling away from her. "Your healin' hurts worse than her pokin'."

Disgusted, Rennie threw the handkerchief at him. "Do it yourself then, or have Dr. Turner look at it. You may need a few stitches."

"What I need is another drink," he said, staring at his nearly empty glass. "Ethan? You want another?"

"What?" Ethan came slowly out of his reverie and saw Jarret's raised glass. "Oh. No, I'm fine. I have to save something for the celebration."

Jarret grunted softly, realizing he should probably do the same. He set the tumbler aside, dropped his sodden handkerchief inside, and settled back on the loveseat. Now that he was allowing himself to feel, he realized his shoulder ached. Where Rennie had managed to douse it with whiskey, it burned all the way to the bone. There was virtually no blood, so he knew that Dee had somehow missed an artery; but it was as deep a puncture wound as any he'd ever had, perhaps a little deeper. The pain had been so great when Detra sunk the scissors in that he had almost lost his hold. For a moment he'd lost all sensation in his hand—his gun hand. He wiggled his fingers now, testing them.

Out of the corner of her eye Rennie saw the movement. "I wish you'd let me look at it."

"Maybe later," he said.

By his tone Rennie knew he was only putting her off. "It could become infected." The look that Jarret shot in her direction warned her it should be her last word on the subject. She was not intimidated. Rennie opened her mouth to say something else, but the cry from the other room distracted her. This time it was not Michael.

Several long minutes passed before the door to the bedroom opened.

Ethan shot to his feet in the same moment that Dr. Turner appeared in the doorway. He looked anxiously past Turner's shoulder, trying to see into the bedroom. "Michael?" he asked. "Is she all right?"

The doctor pushed aside the fringe of damp blond hair on his forehead. "You have a fine, healthy daughter, Ethan."

There was no change in Ethan's expression. "Is Michael all right?"

"Your wife's fine," the doctor reassured gently.

Ethan let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. Tension seeped out of him. "I can see her?" he asked.

"You'd better," Michael called.

Scott Turner smiled and stepped out of the doorway. "You heard her."

Ethan practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach his wife. Rennie and Dr. Turner exchanged indulgent smiles. Jarret shook his head, his dark sapphire eyes full of restrained good humor.

"Rennie?" Dr. Turner asked. "Don't you want to go in?"

"In a minute. I want to give them some time alone." She pointed to Jarret. "He was wounded tonight by that she-devil. Perhaps you could take a look."

Scott had started to roll down his sleeves. Now he pushed them back up to his elbows. "Since I'm here." He looked at Jarret expectantly and realized for the first time how reluctant the patient was. "Rennie, your sister was saying that she'd like a cup of chamomile tea. Why don't you see if you can get some from the hotel kitchen?"

"I could ring for it," she said.

"It would be quicker if you got it yourself."

"Oh." Rennie finally took the doctor's hint. "Of course. I'll get it now."

Watching her go, Jarret shook his head. "You should have just asked her straight out to leave. She'd have understood that quicker."

Scott Turner smiled. "I was thinking of your pride. Now let me see your shoulder."

Jarret blinked in surprise. "How did you know it was my shoulder?"

"I don't have to be a doctor to see that you're favoring it right now. Let's have a look." He watched Jarret struggle to use both hands to unbutton his shirt, give up with his right, and continue clumsily with only his left. "That's good enough," he said when the shirt was half undone. He pushed it off Jarret's right shoulder. Knowing that his patient was watching him keenly for reaction, Scott was careful not to give one.

The puncture wound was little more than an inch on the surface, and on close examination, not as cleanly made as Scott would have hoped. "Detra Kelly did this?" he asked without inflection.

Jarret nodded. "With a pair of scissors."

"Were they clean? Rust? Anything like that?"

Jarret's low chuckle ended in a wince. "I didn't get a good look."

"No, I suppose you didn't." Scott went to the bedroom and got his satchel. "Your wound wasn't made in a clean, stabbing motion," he said, pulling a stopper out of a bottle of alcohol. "What happened?"

"She got the scissors under my shirt collar and plunged them in my shoulder."

"Then she couldn't get them out."

Jarret sucked in his breath as Scott applied the alcohol with a clean cotton cloth. "That's what I remember."

"Did she twist them?"

"I don't know. It seemed that way. It felt like she was cuttin' off my shoulder."

"Can you move your fingers?"

Jarret did. "Appears so. They tingle a little. My whole arm does as a matter of fact."

"Squeeze my hand." He held it out to Jarret. It was taken in a firm grip. "Harder." When the grip did not increase significantly Scott Turner's solid, cleanly cut features turned grave.

"What is it?" Jarret asked. "What did that bitch do to me?"

Turner sat back and regarded Jarret carefully. "Everything my wife's told me about you, Mr. Sullivan, leads me to believe you'd like your news like your whiskey: straight. The truth is, I don't know the full extent of the damage. She may have injured a nerve; that's why you have the tingling. She didn't sever it or you'd feel nothing. Your shoulder's stiff right now, and you don't have all your strength in your hand; but that could improve."

"Or not."

The doctor nodded. "Or not. There's no way of telling right now. You should know more in a few days." He began bandaging Jarret's shoulder. "Come by Jennings Memorial Hospital early in the week and I'll look at it again."

"I'll be gone by then. Now that Dee's in jail and Houston's dead there's nothing to keep me in New York." His eyes strayed to the door. "Don't tell Rennie about my shoulder. Not that she'd care," he said quickly, "but she'd feel obligated to fuss, and I don't need that."

Scott Turner knew there was more to it than that, but he agreed. "You're going to be tempted to use your arm just to test how it's healing," he said, tying off the bandage. "Don't give into temptation. Let it rest. Straining it may exacerbate the damage. Is that clear, Mr. Sullivan?"

Jarret was reluctant to give his word. He wiggled his fingers again. He wanted to wrap his fingers around the handle of his gun and see if he could still pull the trigger. What if he couldn't hold the gun at all?

"If you have some problem with that," Scott was saying, "then I think I better tell Rennie right now. Her fussing may save your arm."

"No, don't say anything to her. I'll nurse it like a baby."

Dr. Turner allowed himself to be convinced. He helped Jarret slip his shirt over the shoulder again and buttoned it for him. "Don't be so proud you can't ask her for help," he said.

Jarret didn't reply because Rennie walked back in the room. "Everything's fine," he told her in response to her questioning glance. He watched Rennie's eyes swing to the doctor for confirmation. She was not satisfied until Scott Turner gave his approval.

"Good," Rennie said, setting down the tray. "I have tea enough for everyone. Would you like some, Mr. Sullivan?"

"I'll get my own whiskey, thanks."

"Scott?"

The doctor held up his hands. "Nothing for me. I have to be leaving. I'll see Michael once more before I go." He closed his satchel, stood, and excused himself.

Jarret got up to get his drink. He could feel Rennie's eyes boring into his back. He tried to hold his shoulder naturally and not appear too clumsy as he poured his drink with his left hand.

"What did Dr. Turner really say?" she asked.

"Just what he told you. I'm fit as a fiddle."

"Odd, I don't recall hearing that."

Jarret ignored her, taking a swallow of his drink instead. Dr. Turner came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, cutting through the charged silence that separated Jarret and Rennie.

"She'll have that tea now," Scott said to Rennie, smiling. "And I'll be going."

Rennie helped him with his coat and retrieved his medicine bag. "Thank you for everything," she said. "You and Susan have done so much. I know I speak for Jay Mac and Mama, too. We all thank you."

It was the heartfelt emotion in Rennie's large eyes that touched Scott. "You're very welcome," he said solemnly. He glanced at Jarret. "Take care of the shoulder." Then he was gone.

Rennie shut the door, picked up the tea tray, and went into the bedroom. She hadn't once looked in Jarret's direction, but he felt her disapproval. The doctor's parting shot about the shoulder had been enough to convince Rennie he was lying about the state of his health.

Ethan was sitting on the edge of the bed next to Michael when Rennie entered. He started to rise, but she shook her head. "Stay right where you are. You look too comfortable to move—all three of you."

Michael's smile was beatific. She raised her cheek as Rennie leaned over the bed and kissed her. "I'm so glad you're here."

Rennie squeezed her hand. Her eyes dropped to the baby that was curled against her sister's breast. The tiny face was red and wrinkled and perfectly content. "Have you named her?"

"Madison," Michael said, glancing at Ethan. Love seemed to spill out of her eyes.

Rennie's heart swelled for her sister's happiness. "Isn't that the name of the town where—"

"Where she was conceived," Michael said.

"Then I suppose she's fortunate you didn't name her after the saloon where it happened." Rennie and Michael laughed as Ethan's cheeks reddened at their plain speaking.

Ethan cleared his throat. "I'd be damned before I'd name my daughter after Kelly's Saloon." He looked at the door. "How's Jarret doing?"