Sawbones (19 page)

“Yes. Victoria's family is in Boston. She lived with them during the war.”

I pressed my lips together and focused on shaving him as quickly as possible and promptly nicked his chin.

I swore under my breath and pressed against the cut with a clean portion of the towel. “I told you I've never done this before.” My voice was testy.

For the second time that night, Kindle touched my hand. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Victoria died in a carriage accident in sixty-four. John's wife, Emma, was with her.”

I hated myself for my relief. “I apologize,” I said, hoping he understood I apologized for thinking ill of him as well as consoling with him for the loss of his wife. Kindle didn't remove his hand, nor did I release the pressure against his chin. He rubbed his thumb across the top of my hand. For a long moment, I was mesmerized by how his light touch erased every ache and pain I'd felt over the last week until all I felt was a prickle where his skin touched mine.

Finally, I regained myself and removed the towel. “That should suffice.”

He dropped his hand and continued with his story as if nothing had passed between us, though his voice was rougher, almost hoarse. “Emma was a Northern sympathizer but she supported John, as any wife would do. As the fighting got closer to the farm, she wrote to Victoria and asked for help to move the kids to safety. My wife's family was happy to take her in.”

Kindle cleared his throat and continued in clearer tones. “The day of the battle, I found John at home, as I knew I would, with my bedridden father. The slaves Emma had left to care for Father left to fight for the Union Army as soon as they moved into the neighborhood. Frankly, I'm surprised they stayed as long as they did. My father was the worst kind of slave owner.

“When John saw Father, wasted from disease and starvation, lying in his own urine and feces, he flew into a rage. This is the result.”

“He blamed you?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“He died in a prisoner-of-war camp not long after I sent him the letter telling him of Emma's death. After the war, I retrieved his body and buried him on our family plot. He was in a camp for officers, so there was little trouble finding his grave.”

I nodded. He was lucky. So many families still didn't know where their fallen sons, husbands, and brothers were buried. Most were buried where they fell—under a tree with a notch marked in it, next to a roadway, or in a mass grave at Andersonville—families had the letters of other soldiers to use to locate their loved ones, with many of those soldiers dead themselves.

“I left for the West the next day,” Kindle said.

“Your father?”

“Is buried next to John.”

His short, clipped answer said volumes. There was more to the story he did not want to tell. “I'm so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

I wiped the razor on the towel and moved in front of Kindle. Kindle said no more. I focused on my task, determined to ignore his steady gaze and the tension in the air between us.

“I remember you doing that,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Biting your lip when you concentrate.”

I smiled. “Yes, my aunt used to chastise me for it.”

“When you did needlepoint?”

“Yes,” I laughed. “How did you…?”

The smile fell from my face. He remembered me from Antietam. I wiped the blade again. “When did you recognize me?”

“Immediately.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“I've been second-guessing my memory—you were dressed as a man, after all—until you mentioned Aunt Emily. Why haven't you said anything?”

I turned and placed the razor next to the basin of water, dampened the edge of the towel, and wiped the excess soap from Kindle's face. He remained silent, waiting.

“Finished.” I held a hand mirror in front of his face.

“Thank you. I'm a new man.”

“I suppose if doctoring doesn't work out for me, I can always be a barber.” I measured out a dose of laudanum. “Take this. It's time to return to bed, Captain.”

“I am not drinking that or moving until you answer my question.”

“I didn't recognize you.”

Kindle scoffed. “You can lie to everyone else, but you cannot lie to me.”

I stared into the opiate-laced whisky I held and was tempted to take it for myself. It wouldn't do a bit of good, though. Kindle was determined to have an answer.

I dared to look in his eyes. I almost laughed at the belligerence I saw there. I liked him all the more for it. “Men aren't the only ones who have a past to run from.”

“Whom are you running from?”

I hadn't seen the stranger from the creek again and, as a result, his shadow had diminished until I believed I had been seeing threats where none existed.

“My own hubris, it would seem.”

He studied me for a moment, nodded, and held out his hand for the whisky. He threw it back in one gulp and handed the tin mug to me.

“That wasn't so hard, was it?”

“It was excruciating.” I helped him stand.

He looked down at me. “I'm beginning to think you're keeping me drugged and senseless because you don't enjoy my company.”

“You've caught me out. That is precisely my goal.”

He grinned. “Excellent.”

I shook my head and couldn't help but smile. “How do you know I'm lying?”

“You have a tell.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. No, I will not reveal it.”

“You're incorrigible.”

“You've said that.”

“And a terrible backgammon player.”

“Another reason you are drugging me, no doubt.”

“One more day of rest and I will decrease your pain medicine. I promise.”

I turned him around and helped him settle onto the edge of the bed.

He tilted his head back and stared at me with the same opiate grin I had seen on Howerton earlier in the day. “I'm glad you were a woman. You were much too beautiful to be a man.”

I scoffed.

“What?”

“You are easily the quickest healer I've ever treated.”

“I'm motivated.”

“To get back in the saddle, yes. I know. Lie down.”

With a mischievous smile he complied without arguing. I pulled the blanket over his chest and tucked it under his slinged arm.

“Your lip biting. Very endearing. Like a child concentrating.”

“You don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes, I do. Your name wasn't Laura.”

I gathered the soap, bowl, razor, and mirror to return them to Kindle's room and did not reply.

“When I enquired about you, the name they gave you wasn't Laura.”

“Sleep, Kindle. We will talk about this later.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“What doesn't matter?”

“What you're hiding. Or running from. I don't care.”

“You don't know what it is.”

“It doesn't matter.” He closed his eyes. “Everyone has secrets.”

Over the next week, the number of patients under my care dwindled to zero. The day after my accusation against Foster, the four men in hospital miraculously recovered and returned to duty. Jethro died and was the first soldier buried in the newly created Negro section of the Jacksboro graveyard. Being his commanding officer, Kindle made his first outing to attend the funeral the following day. While he leaned heavily on his cane, he showed no outward evidence of pain. Soon, Kindle would leave on patrol for Kiowa and Comanche, besting my prediction of a four-week recovery by two.

Kindle's regiment returned, with few cattle to show for their efforts, in time to attend Jethro's funeral. Sergeant Washington, as the ranking Negro NCO and close friend of Jethro, conducted the service. After taps and after the first shovelful of dirt thundered down onto the wooden coffin, I turned to leave. When Kindle didn't follow I returned and stood next to him, wondering what else there was to do. The mourners were silent as four soldiers filled the grave. When the mound was smoothed and the cross hammered into the ground, Sergeant Washington laid a baseball glove on the mound. Another soldier placed a bat with a hole bored into the barrel and a baseball next to the glove, which I noticed was without the leather laces required to hold it together. Caro, wearing a black turban in place of her usual colorful one, offered a pipe. One by one, the soldiers placed small trinkets, mostly common household items, on the grave and walked away. When all had been placed, Kindle touched the small of my back and ushered me away from the graveyard.

“What were they doing?”

“It's a slave custom. They give the items to the dead so their spirit won't wander.”

“They're for the spirit to use?”

“I suppose it's one way of looking at it.”

“He won't get much use from the baseball glove and bat.”

“The items are rendered unusable so they won't be stolen.”

I held my tongue. My accusation against Foster hung between us like an albatross. I still had not apologized to the lieutenant colonel, much to Kindle's irritation.

“How's your pain?” I asked.

“Tolerable.”

“You're determined to make the timeline I gave General Sherman seem conservative, aren't you?”

“Yes. I'm tired of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and playing backgammon.”

“Only because I'm beating you.”

“You're only beating me because I'm in pain. And, you distract me.”

I ignored the comment. “As your doctor, I have to warn you I believe you are doing too much, too soon.”

“I'm needed on a horse, not in bed.”

I knew to try to talk him out of his goal would be pointless, not only because I had discovered in the last few days that he was exceedingly stubborn but also because I knew that, though my objections were based on sound medical opinion, my conservative treatment options would seem like concerns of a woman.

“When do you leave?”

“Sometime next week.”

“The later the better. The more time you have to recover at the fort the better for your long-term recovery. You don't want to use a cane for your entire life.”

“Not this particular cane, no. I wonder why you didn't scam Franklin out of a much more stylish one. What does it say about your opinion of me you that looked at the options and chose plain hickory?”

“You cannot be serious for a moment, can you?”

“When the moment warrants it, I can be serious.”

Though we were walking a few feet apart, the change in his demeanor and the timbre of his voice made the expanse of the prairie surrounding us feel as intimate as an embrace.

What passed between us two nights earlier was ever present, making it more and more difficult for me to keep our relationship professional. I found myself anticipating the time I spent with him, looking forward to it as the most enjoyable part of my day. Kindle's personality suited me perfectly. He was honorable and evenhanded, kind to enlisted men as well as officers. He was blessed with a ready wit but not at the expense of others. But, for all of Kindle's honor and kindness, he was still a man, and a traditional one at that. I didn't know what was more terrifying: the idea he would expect me to give up medicine or the idea he wouldn't.

I stopped walking. We were quite alone on the road between the fort and Jacksboro.

“Why are you determined to make this difficult on me?” I demanded.

“Make what difficult?”

“Leaving.” Kindle's expression of astonishment caught me off guard. “I am staying until the new doctor arrives. No longer.” Kindle narrowed his eyes. “I assumed you knew.”

“No.”

Kindle dropped his cane and cradled my face in his hands. My breath caught at the sudden, intense longing for this, the touch of a man. Kindle's touch. I had long since accepted desire as a sensation lost to me, sacrificed on the altar of my professional goals. Now, being held by Kindle, I wondered why I couldn't have both. “You cannot deny this.”

I reached up and touched the nick on his chin.

He stroked my cheek and slowly pulled me toward him. Kindle kissed me hesitantly at first, as if he expected me to bolt any moment. My mind screamed to leave, to protect myself from the hurt this would lead to. My body, bombarded by the scratch of his stubble on my chin, the softness of his lips, and the slight scent of horse and leather that lingered on Kindle's clothes, craved more. When Kindle wrapped his arms around me and pulled me nearer, I melted into him and gave myself over to the hunger I'd denied myself for too long.

The distant nicker of a horse and the sound of jingling tack broke through my muddled mind. I tried to pull away, breathless and flushed, but Kindle held me firmly against him. He was correct; I couldn't deny what was between us. Yes, I wanted him. But, I could not have him. I knew I would carry the ache of loss for years, but in time I would forget.

“People are coming,” I said. He released me. I patted my hair, and ran my hands down the front of my shirt. I turned and walked toward the fort. Kindle followed.

“We shouldn't have done that.”

“It is exactly what we should have done, what I've wanted to do since I saw you standing in the schooner, staring out at the rain.”

“You're being incredibly selfish.”

“Selfish?”

I stepped off the road and stopped, waited for the two riders to pass, and said in an undertone, “In a week you will be gone, with a real possibility to never return.”

“Patrols rarely resul—”

“Where does that leave me? A week of sneaking around to not insult the sensitivities of the officers' wives, mourning the loss of yet another person I care for? No, thank you.”

“I'll return.”

“You don't know that. It'll be difficult enough to endure your absence as things stand between us now. I don't think I could bear it if things were different.”

He reached out to touch my face. “Laura…”

I stepped back. “No. Please don't. You're being cruel.”

He dropped his hand. He leaned on his cane, staring at me in shock. After what he had told me previously of his father, I regretted the word choice.

“When the surgeon arrives, nothing will hold me here.”

“Stop lying, Laura. Not to me.”

I looked away. The two riders were almost out of sight. The man on the gray horse was turned in the saddle, staring at us. His hat was pulled low over his eyes, but his gaze rooted me to the spot all the same. The man grinned, touched his hat to me, turned and rode on.

I turned to Kindle. “Did you see that man?”

“What man?”

I pointed down the road, though the two men were lost from sight. Instead, Beau Kindle loped toward us. “On the gray horse. I saw him across the creek the first day I was here and later on at the fort.”

“What about him?”

My eyes met Kindle's. I could not tell him I worried the man was watching me without divulging my past. “I've seen him multiple times. There is a malevolent air about him.”

“The frontier is full of
cruel
men.”

Kindle's lips, so recently full of tenderness and longing, hardened in a thin line. His anger didn't quite reach his eyes, though. The eyes that had struck me so at Antietam showed the real Kindle, the man I knew I would ache for long after I'd left Fort Richardson.

“You are nothing like him,” I said.

With a disheveled appearance and jaunty grin, Beau reined his horse in a few feet away. “Captain, Miss Elliston.”

“Beau,” I said.

“Where were you?” Kindle asked.

“In Jacksboro.”

“You missed Jethro's funeral.”

“I didn't know him.”

“But you're one of the commanding officers of his regiment. You should have been there.”

Beau's face turned a mottled red. Before he could answer with the insubordinate retort, which was surely on his tongue, I asked, “Were you in Jacksboro on business?”

Beau blushed, giving me a clear indication of what kind of business took him to Jacksboro. “Of a sort,” Beau said.

Before Kindle could berate him, Beau said, “Did you hear about Pope?”

“The newspaperman?” I said.

“Yes. Beaten to a pulp last night. His shop ransacked.”

“Pope?” Kindle said.

“Yes, the former boxing champion himself was beaten to within an inch of his life. His jaw was broken, as was his press. He won't be communicating in any way, shape, or form for some time to come.”

“Poor Mr. Pope.” I did not wish Henry Pope harm, but I silently thanked God a threat to my identity had been neutralized. “Is there a doctor in Jacksboro seeing to him?” I asked.

“Welch.”

“Do they have any idea who did it?” Kindle said.

“I heard the name Cotter Black.”

Kindle tensed. “What did you say?”

“Cotter Black. Apparently that's the leader of the new gang raiding around here.”

“The phantom Mr. Black is blamed for every bad thing that happens,” I said.

“You've heard of him?” Kindle said. His face was pale.

“The laundresses mentioned him the other day. Why?”

Kindle looked in the direction the malevolent man rode. “Nothing.”

“Lieutenant, come to my quarters at noon,” Kindle said. His voice was strained and terse. “You're dismissed.”

Beau executed a jerky salute and rode off.

Kindle walked off. Gone was the slow amble from before. Now, he moved as quickly as possible, almost angrily.

“William,” I said, rushing to keep up with him. “Slow down.”

He stopped and glared at me. I reeled at the transformation in his face. His eyes. “I know Beau is irresponsible, but—”

Kindle walked on. “I am not angry with Beau.”

We crossed the bridge spanning Lost Creek and the fort came into sight. Activity had increased significantly with the return of Kindle's regiment as well as a rider carrying a dispatch from Sherman and addendum from Mackenzie. The four children from the wagon train had been ransomed to the Quakers two days after the attack and were safe at Fort Sill. Sherman, while glad the children were unharmed, was incensed federal Indian policy could allow the killers of white settlers to reap benefits from kidnapping the orphans and evade justice. Sherman's own near brush with the same band of Kiowa fueled his anger and the new Army objective of “Kill them all.” To that end an increase in military strength in Texas was in motion with regiments from as far away as Saint Louis being routed to Texas forts, such as Richardson and Griffin. Mackenzie was somewhere in Indian Territory, still searching for the perpetrators of the Salt Creek Massacre, as the attack of my wagon train was now being called. Most people thought it futile; Indian Peace Policy didn't allow the pursuit of Indians into Indian Territory, which is why this part of Texas was being bombarded with raids. What would be done with the Indians if they were caught no one could tell.

At the front of the hospital, Kindle turned and said, “If you'll excuse me, I must see Foster.”

His coldness was like a dagger. Though I wielded it, too, when turned on myself, the pain of it was shocking. “Of course. Thank you.”

I watched him limp off until he was lost amid the activity of the fort.

“Doctor?”

Waterman stood in the hospital doorway.

“Yes?”

“This was delivered for you a little while ago.”

He handed me an envelope and returned inside. My name was written in a clear hand on the front. I removed and unfolded the reward poster the newspaperman had threatened me with my second day at Fort Richardson, now crinkled, torn, and covered with Henry Pope's blood.