Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

Delaney turned at the sound of the doctor’s booming voice. “Saint, glad you could come so quickly. Chauncey, in case you don’t remember, this is your doctor, Saint Morris.”

?

?Move aside, Del, and let me have a look.” Without further words, he began to pull up Chauncey’s nightshirt. Mary, with a gasp, planted herself firmly in front of Delaney.

Delaney walked quietly to the far side of the room and stared down at the garden Lin carefully tended. He had remonstrated briefly with her at the extra work, but she’d merely smiled at him and spouted about the inflated cost of vegetables. Everything was expensive, he’d pointed out reasonably, and he could well afford it, but she’d held firm. He turned his head slightly at the sound of Saint’s stern voice.

“Now, young lady, stop fighting me. Take short, easy breaths, and don’t fret. I’ll have you more comfortable in just a minute.”

Chauncey felt the vise about her chest ease slightly. “That’s better,” she managed.

“Good,” Saint said matter-of-factly. “Miss Mary, give me a glass of water with three drops of laudanum.”

“Please, no more laudanum. I . . . Please, no more.”

“It’ll ease your pain, girl. You’ll do as I tell you, if you please.”

Chauncey docilely drank the liquid. “I can’t imagine why anyone would call you Saint,” she said, staring at his bushy side whiskers.

He chuckled. “You’ll be as good as new in no time. Delaney, you can come back now.”

“It’s a ridiculous name,” Chauncey said clearly, trying to keep the laudanum at bay. “How ever did you get it?”

“It’s ridiculous, is it, girl? Well, let me tell you a story.”

He settled himself in the chair beside the bed. “Now, you listen to me. Back in the thirties, there was this young buck, Jim Savage was his name. Lived back in Illinois, he did. He married his sweetheart, and theirs was one of the first wagon trains to cross the plains headed for California. Unfortunately, the lass died after birthing a dead baby. Broke him, her death did. Broke him good. He made it here, ah, indeed he did. All sorts of rumors grew up about him, like him fighting in the Bear Flag Rebellion against Mexico, and teaming up with Frémont and Kit Carson. After gold was discovered, he disappeared again, and the story is that he took up with the Mariposa tribe and became their king! Well, it seems that some of the Indians turned on him, and things went from bad to worse. All the Indians went out of control. John McDougal made Jim Savage a major in the special Mariposa Battalion to put a stop to it. Savage marched his men up the banks of the Merced River into country no white man had ever seen before. One day, Savage reached the crest of this precipice. ‘It’s an inspiration,’ Jim Savage said, shouting to a friend in awe. He was staring at cliffs a mile high, and two skinny waterfalls that plunged thousands of feet to the valley’s floor. Named it Inspiration Point. Well, his legend grew, but it seems he was something of a noble fool and got himself shot, just last year.”

There was utter silence.

Saint Morris studied her face. He saw the drug was taking effect, and smiled at her.

“What does that have to do with your being called Saint?”

“Your wits aren’t begging yet, huh?” He patted her hand and rose. “You will sleep now, girl. As to why I’m called Saint, well, that’s another story. Del, Miss Mary, take good care of my patient.”

“You should be called a miserable storyteller, not saint,” Chauncey called after him.

He chuckled and waved a huge hand at her.

“That was delicious,” Chauncey said.

“It’s one of Lin’s special dishes for invalids. It’s got an outlandish name—chicken-and-rice soup.” he grinned widely. “And lots of unpronounceable things are in it. I will tell her you enjoyed it.”

“Indeed,” Chauncey said, giggling. “Perhaps she can sell the name to the rest of the civilized world.”

He gave her an answering smile, but his eyes grew thoughtful on her face. She felt better, thank God. Her eyes were bright again and her color back to normal.

The lamps were dimmed and it was nearly ten o’clock at night. Saint hadn’t been to see her today, having to attend a man who had been shot through the leg in a duel. Delaney sat in the wing chair next to the bed after he removed Chauncey’s tray. “You had a number of visitors today,” he said after a moment. “Gentlemen of all persuasions trooped through, hats in hand, mournful looks in their eyes, and the like.”

“I trust you told them I wasn’t receiving.”

“Oh no, I brought them all up. You were taking a nap, of course, so I knew they wouldn’t bother you.”

Chauncey’s hand flew to her hair, now brushed and braided. At his chuckle, she frowned. “You are a liar,” she said.

“You are mending, thank God.”

“And his Saint.”