Drake let his chin sag to his chest. Driving the ox and caring for Hope by day, coupled with snatching a few catnaps between fighting her fits at night, was taking its toll. Even his teeth felt tired.
Not for the first time did he wonder at his reasons for bringing Hope along. At the time it seemed a rational thing to do. Now, however, when he had one foot in the waking, and one foot in the sleeping world, he wasn’t so sure.
He could never have left her in the dirt to bleed to death. That decision went without question. But why had he brought her up on the horse with him in the first place? He’d recognized Tubbs immediately, and he knew the vile creature’s bullets were meant for himself, not Hope. On the ground she would have been safe. He could just as easily have mounted the horse alone and ridden for safety without her.
But he hadn’t. He’d scooped her unwilling body up in the saddle with him, and had gotten her shot in the process. If she died from the infection that raged through her body, it would be his fault, no one else’s.
Except Tubbs, his mind insisted. Tubbs! He’d kill the scrawny little reptile if he ever had the misfortune to meet up with him again. And if Hope died....
His hands tightened into fists. If Hope died, he’d make finding Tubbs his life’s goal. And after he’d squashed the life out of him, Drake would turn his sights on his brother. Surely any man who employed a man like Tubbs to do his dirty work deserved no better than to die the same agonizing death as his hireling.
Again, Drake’s thoughts turned to Hope.
I should have left her behind, where she was safe. Why didn’t I? As his eyelids wearily blinked shut and his head rolled back to be cushioned by the sack of flour, Drake found he was no closer to an answer now than he had been two weeks ago.
Hope’s mouth felt like the inside of a ball of cotton, her stomach like a yawning, empty pit. Her eyes stung as she slowly opened them.
She tried to lift her arms, to wipe the sleep from her eyes, but the pain that shot through her shoulder stopped her cold. Relaxing, she squinted and took her first real look at her surroundings.
On closer examination, what she had first thought to be a murky gray sky turned out to be canvas stretched taut over the arched, skeletal ribs of a wagon. The interior was cramped, the pegs on its sideboards holding everything from a rifle to a skillet. Sacks of nameless foodstuffs were strewn wherever space allowed. Beside the straw mattress on which she lay was a table made of three pieces of wood, crudely nailed together. The top of it was dark with water stains. The shelf-like fixture was nailed to the floor and the bottom was crammed with half-filled jugs of water, a few rags, an empty bowl, and a pile of white cloth that had been cut into strips, then neatly folded and stacked.
The wagon wasn’t moving, and it took Hope a few seconds to realize that the pale orange light surrounding her was not a product of the sun, but the glow of a lamp swinging from a hook attached to the center beam overhead.
Closing her eyes, she let the sights wash through her mind as her hearing tuned in to the sounds of the night.
Outside she could hear the gentle whicker of a horse, maybe two. A hoot owl’s call drifted on the cool night air, accompanied by the annoyed trill of a bird. In the distance, if she listened close, was an occasional gurgle of water. A campfire crackled. The aroma of fresh biscuits and the sizzle of frying bacon alerted her to the hunger that gnawed within.
Her tongue felt thick, like it was coated with fur, as she tried to moisten her dry, cracked lips. Her stomach voiced a complaint, but Hope ignored it as she tried to focus her thoughts on where the ache seeping through her body originated. Her shoulder. No, her arm. No, somewhere just in between. Yes, that was it, she decided as she felt the wagon sway with a sudden weight. Opening her eyes this time was not nearly as difficult.
Using one hand to steady his balance, and the other to hold on to his plate, Drake pushed himself into the wagon. He didn’t notice her, and Hope remained still, doing nothing to indicate she was alert. She watched as he hunched beneath the lamp, taking a seat on the hard wood floor. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, and smell the masculine scent of his flesh. The fragrance mingled with the tantalizing aroma of his meal.
Her hand itched to reach out and feel that muscular shoulder bunch beneath her palm. She cursed the weakness in her limbs that forbade her to give in to the wicked temptation.
Drake must have sensed her perusal. As his fingers brought the piping hot biscuit to his lips, his gaze hesitantly lifted to Hope’s. His expression did not change, but the hand stopped, poised in midair.
“Hope?” The voice cracked as the biscuit was lowered. The plate was quickly set atop the table beside the mattress, and just as quickly forgotten as he knelt beside her.
She tried to smile, but it was a weak gesture at best. “Where have you brought me, gunslinger? Never mind.” She averted her gaze to the half-filled jugs. “Is that water? I’m dying of thirst.”
Drake fumbled with a jug, and Hope let him lift her head and raise the neck of it to her lips. The water was stale, but it tasted good nonetheless. “Small sips,” he directed, eying her carefully as she let the soothing liquid trickle down her throat.
“Just a little more,” she pleaded when he pulled the jug away and tucked it back under the shelf.
Drake shook his head. “You’ve had plenty. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have given you that much. You’ve been pretty sick.”
“So I gathered.” She picked up a hand and forced it to her forehead. The movement sapped what little strength she had. Her flesh, she was relieved to find, was cool, but the dampness of her hair told her how recently her fever had broken. Her gaze shifted from his frown of concern to the biscuit that wafted tendrils of steam in the air. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your food, would you?”
“You’re hungry? Already?” Drake gulped. Henry Mead, the doctor they’d passed a week back on another train heading west, had told him what to do about the fever. But the man hadn’t given instructions for when she woke up. Drake hadn’t thought to ask. He’d harbored his doubts as to whether that moment would ever come.
“Of course I’m hungry,” she smiled weakly. “What did you expect? How long as it been since I’ve had anything eat?”
The reality that she was awake, and speaking, was only now beginning to register, in slowly building waves of elation. The extent of that relief, as it swept through his blood, shocked Drake. “I gave you some broth at noon.” He grinned. “You gave it right back.”
“Sorry,” she murmured. Her cheeks flooded with color as she averted her gaze to the lamp swinging overhead.
“Don’t be. You were sick; it couldn’t be helped.” Taking the biscuit from his plate, he broke it in half and handed the larger chunk to Hope.