Just as dawn was breaking, and the birds were beginning to tweet their morning song as if this were a normal day like any other.
Chapter Seventeen
FIVE WOODEN CHAIRS parked around the kitchen table. Five earthenware cups emptied of liquid. Five silent, emotionally drained participants pondering the whole sorry business, drawn together, like family members, by tragedy.
“Rough night,” finally observed Dr. Havers, in what must surely be the understatement of the year.
Were the condition of the settee’s wounded man not so grave and worrisome, the others might have added a weak chuckle to the mix. As it was, Paul Winslow managed a smile. “For sure.”
Camellia was toying with a teaspoon; its bright metal reflected beams of sunlight as it flipped, bowl over handle, handle over bowl. She unkinked her swollen jaw enough to comment that apparently this whole awful affair stemmed just from the finding of a semi-precious ore.
“That it did. But then men, as you will find, Mrs. Forrester, make fools of themselves often enough over things that don’t really matter in the long run.”
“Reckon you officers of the law will have to head out and bring those bodies back for Christian burial,” noted Gabriel.
“Reckon we will. And I reckon you’re goin’ with us, Doc, no matter how tired all of us happen to be.” As if to prov
e the point, Paul stretched his arms above his head with an elaborate yawn. “Need to write up their deaths as authenticated, listin’ the cause and all.”
“And then track down whatever relatives they may’ve had,” added Austin gloomily. “Listen, Sawbones, you got anything in that magic bag of yours for a headache that’s about to split my skull in two?”
Gabe nodded. “Yeah, I think I can find somethin’ for you, deputy. Hannah, oh dear lady, might I prevail upon you for another cup of coffee?”
“Certainly.” She sent him a charming smile that bared her teeth. “Help yourself; the pot is keeping warm there, on the stove’s back burner.”
Before he could splutter an indignant reply, Camellia intervened with another question as to Ben’s prognosis. “He hasn’t moved in all this time,” she fretted. “When do you think he’ll regain consciousness? Talk? Eat? Recognize us?”
“In his own good time,” the doctor assured her. “As I explained earlier, Cam, this is gonna be a slow road of healin’ and recovery. The man took a bullet too close to the heart for him to be feelin’ very spry for a while. The trick for you is just to be patient.”
“You’ll leave me directions for his care?” she persisted anxiously. “And I can call on you whenever necessary?”
“Sure enough.”
“And the bill for your services—you’ll let me know what we owe?”
Gabriel harrumphed a little. “We’ll worry about that a bit later,” he said in the gruff tones that meant, with his patient sprawled at death’s door on the settee, it was a subject he felt uncomfortable discussing.
“Any other questions?” the sheriff put in at this point. “All right, then.” With another yawn, he pushed back his chair and hiked his tall, loose-limbed frame to its feet. “C’mon, Austin. Let’s skedaddle on back out to Putnam’s and do what’s needin’ to be done. You comin’, Doc?”
“I don’t s’pose you got an extra horse?” He groaned. “A buckboard is the worst dang thing to ride in. I ain’t gonna be in any shape to head out fandangoin’ after a few hours spent in that infernal, misbegotten piece of equipment.”
“Yeah, we all got a cross to bear,” agreed Paul dryly.
“Fandangoing?” Hannah, brows raised, murmured in an aside to no one in particular.
The house seemed abnormally quiet when the three men with their bulk and essential maleness finally departed. Both Camellia and Hannah, having seen them to the door and beyond, had collapsed in utter exhaustion at the table, almost too weary even to talk.
Camellia, her beautiful blue eyes ringed by fatigue and marked by the bruises of her ordeal, looked around. Following two full hours of rough masculine occupation, cooking, and its aftermath, the kitchen was left a shambles, that smelled disagreeably of grease.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured.
“Not surprising,” agreed her sister with alacrity. “You’ve been living in a three-ring circus for the last two days. Not to mention being drugged. Let’s just sit for a few minutes, shall we, Cam? I’m worn out myself.”
What coffee remained in the pot had turned black and thick as sludge. Hannah heated water and, for a pleasant change, brewed tea instead. Plenty of sugar helped both mood and spirits as they simply enjoyed sipping.
“Lemons,” Camellia, fingers wrapped around a more delicate porcelain cup unearthed from the cupboard and elbows propped on the table in defiance of etiquette, said dreamily. “I’m craving a nice tall glass of cool lemonade. Wouldn’t that be delicious? I want to go shopping for groceries, and buy some lemons.”
“Mmmm. Sure you’ll feel up to it? You’ll probably be the brunt of town gossip, the way that face of yours looks.”