Midnight Star

  “Damn,” he said softly, gazing at the fast-rising ugly bruise on her temple. Head injuries were serious business and he had never felt so damned helpless in his life. He was aware of every tick of the clock. Why wouldn’t she wake up? “Elizabeth,” he said softly, but she didn’t stir. To his profound relief, he heard Doc Morris’ stertorous breath as he climbed the stairs.

  “Well, Del, what’s all this?” Saint Morris asked as he walked into the bedroom. “It is the English lady. What the hell happened? Lucas muttered about a fall from a horse.”

  Delaney rose from the bed. “It’s her head, and she whispered something about her ribs. She took quite a spill. A tree branch got her.”

  “Has she been unconscious the whole time?”

  “No, in and out.”

  As Saint Morris spoke, he stripped off his frock coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Let’s take a look.”

  Delaney moved aside, watching with narrowed eyes as the very competent Saint, one of the few real doctors in San Francisco, gently prodded at the growing lump at her temple. Delaney had always thought of Saint as the most substantial man he’d ever known. He had more the look of a lumberjack—barrel-chested, huge shoulders. But his large hands were incredibly competent and gentle.

  “She’s alive,” Saint said matter-of-factly. “Concussion, most likely. Damn all these ridiculous clothes women persist in wearing! Get me Lin Chou, Del. I can’t examine her through all of these layers.”

  Delaney felt a spurt of relief at doing something, anything, of help. Lin Chou was standing in the corridor with Lucas.

  “Missy all right?” she asked.

  “Right now Doc Morris needs to get her clothes off. I’ll be out here when you’re done. Oh, Lin, put her in that nightshirt of mine I never wear. It’s in the bottom drawer.”

  “Shit,” Lucas said again, studying Delaney’s face.

  “Yeah,” Delaney said, running his hand distractedly through his hair.

  “What the hell was she doing out on Rincon Hill?”

  “You should know,” Delaney said. “Didn’t you tell her maid all of my habits?”

  “So that’s the lay of it,” Lucas said thoughtfully. “She wanted to meet you.”

  “So it appears. Damn, what’s taking so long?” He swallowed convulsively, picturing her pale face and white lips. It was all his fault, he admitted. If he hadn’t played the elusive fool, she wouldn’t have been forced to go to such lengths.

  “I’m a bloody fool,” he said.

  Lucas snorted at this, and said, “I’d best go get her maid, Mary. She’s likely worried sick.”

  “Good idea, Luc. And don’t mind me. Saint said something about a concussion. I doubt Miss Jameson will be leaving here for a while. Have her maid pack Miss Jameson’s things and her own. They’ll be our guests.”

  Delaney wanted a drink but he was loath to leave his post outside his bedroom door. He could hear Saint talking to Lin, but couldn’t make out his words. It seemed a week passed before the door opened and Saint came out, rolling down his sleeves over his muscled forearms.

  “Well? How is she?”

  “The tree branch won,” Saint said. “She’ll live, Del, but you’ve got yourself a boarder for a while. Can’t let you move her, not with that concussion. As for her ribs, as far as I can tell, she may have cracked a couple. She won’t be feeling like waltzing much for the next couple of weeks.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “Nope, and it’s probably just as well. Lin told me you’ve a store of laudanum. She’ll need it.”

  “No internal injuries?”

  “Doubtful. One thing about all those damned clothes, they did protect her somewhat. Now, Del, I’m ready for a glass of whiskey.” He saw Delaney’s worried gaze go back toward the bedroom, and shook his head. “There’s naught you can do, Del. Lin will call if she comes around. When she does, I’ll feel her belly and see if she has any pain there.”

  “I sent Lucas for her maid and clothes.”

  Saint shot his friend a sideways glance as they walked into Delaney’s library downstairs. “Dan Brewer was telling me about the girl. Seems she has an interest in you, so Dan says.”

  “God knows,” Delaney said. “She’s quite a . . . handful.”

  “Lovely little thing. Never did like females who played the silent mouse. Not natural.”

  “Here’s your whiskey, Saint.” The two men clicked their glasses together and downed the contents in one gulp.

  “Will you stay until she comes out of it?”

  “Can’t, Del. Mrs. Cutter is birthing her third. Since she’s an old hand at it, I came here first. I’ll be back. Don’t be so god-awful worried. Keep her calm and quiet when she comes around. A little laudanum in water. She’s certain to need it.”

  Lin looked like a possessive little guard dog, Delaney thought when he entered his bedroom. She was standing still as a statue next to the bed, her eyes fixed on Miss Jameson’s face.

  The covers were pulled only to her waist, likely in deference to her ribs, and Delaney smiled at the sight of his nightshirt. I never would have looked like that in it.

  “Missy not make a sound,” Lin said.

  “You can go downstairs now, Lin. Lucas should be bringing her maid along soon. I’ll watch Miss Jameson.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” Lin said. “For a white woman.”

  “Speaking as a white man, I’d have to agree with you.”

  After Lin left, Delaney pulled over a chair and eased down into it. “Why, Elizabeth?” he said softly, studying her face. “Why are you so interested in me?” There was no response of course. He liked her name, aware for the first time that he had used it. Elizabeth Jameson, a very well-bred name.

  Chauncey felt the sun shining on her face. It’s time to get up, she thought hazily. I’ve been sleeping much too long. There’s so much to be done. She opened her eyes and rational thought fled. What was he doing here in her bedroom?

  “Hello,” Delaney said, leaning forward. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

  “But I always wake up in the morning,” she said, then frowned. A bolt of pain shot through her chest, and she gasped aloud. “Something is wrong.”

  “Hold still, Elizabeth,” he said, gently pressing down her shoulders. “You had an accident. Don’t you remember?”

  She nodded slowly, and the slight movement of her head made her very sorry. “I want to go home,” she whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes.

  “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “Do your ribs hurt?”

  “Yes,” she managed. “It hurts to breathe.”

  “Do you want some laudanum?”

  “Oh no! My father died . . . laudanum.”

  He saw the frenzy of pain in her eyes. Pain from her body—and also pain from her father? “Hush,” he said. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Elizabeth. Just a little laudanum in water. It will make you feel better.”

  “My name is Chauncey,” she whispered up at him, wondering why it was so important to make that clear.

  “Chauncey,” he repeated, his eyes lighting with a smile. “That is more like you than the formal ‘Elizabeth,’ I think.”

  “I . . . I can’t help it,” she gasped. He saw her fingers clutching frantically at the bedcovers. Tears streaked down her cheeks, and he quickly flicked them away with his fingertips.

  “I’m sorry. Here, I’m going to lift you just a bit. Drink a few swallows.”

  Delaney slipped his arm beneath her and felt the pain of her breathing. He placed the rim of the glass to her lips and tipped it. She tried to turn her head away, but he forced her to swallow.

  Chauncey felt the rippling waves of pain engulfing her, drawing her inward. I hate tears, she thought angrily. “I don’t want to be weak,” she gasped her thoughts aloud.

  “You should have heard me when I was shot last year. I yowled like a trapped bear.” It was all a lie, but he would have said anything to ease her. “Hush now. I know it hurts drea
dfully for you to talk. The laudanum will take effect in a few minutes.”

  “I don’t want to die . . . not from laudanum.”

  “I imagine that you’re going to live until you’re ninety. Doc Morris will be back shortly. You’ll believe him, won’t you?”

  She felt a veil of vagueness cloak her mind. She could feel the pain, could nearly taste it, but it was growing fainter, like an animal’s fangs drawing out of her flesh. “I didn’t want this to happen,” she whispered.

  “No one ever wants pain.”

  “I don’t want to be . . . weak around you.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I can’t allow you to hurt me. Not until . . . not ever . . .”

  He stared at her, not understanding her words, waiting, but her head lolled on the pillow and her eyelashes swept closed in sleep.

  “Eliz . . . Chauncey,” he began, suddenly frightened that he had given her too much laudanum. Surely she shouldn’t sleep, not with a concussion.

  He rose and strode toward the door, only to come to an abrupt halt in front of her maid, Mary, Lucas at her side. He said tensely to Lucas, “Go fetch Saint. She came out of it and I gave her some laudanum.”

  “How is she, sir?”

  Delaney studied the girl in front of him. Her face wasn’t precisely plain, for her gray eyes held a good deal of humor and common sense. Her mouth was too wide, her nose uptilted. She was plump and would likely be comfortably fat in later years. “What? Oh, Chauncey.” Her expression altered, doubtless at the use of her mistress’s nickname. “Listen, Mary. It is not an act. She was accidentally struck by a tree branch and thrown.”

  Mary shook her head, still expecting to see Miss Chauncey wink at her when she entered the bedroom. “Not an act,” she repeated, trying to gather her scattered wits.

  “I know that she set out to meet me, to have me execute a daring, quite needless rescue. I did, but she was hurt.”

  “Oh God,” Mary whispered, swaying a bit. “How bad is it, sir?”

  “A concussion and cracked ribs. The doctor will be returning shortly. He assures me that she’ll be all right, with proper care.”

  Mary’s tongue ran nervously over her lower lip. “How do you know it wasn’t the . . . real thing?”

  “She told me. Undoubtedly she didn’t intend to, but it slipped out. What is your full name, Mary?”

  “Mary Leona MacTavish, sir.”

  “Thank you. It just occurred to me that I have put Miss Jameson in my bedroom. At least it’s large and airy. You can sleep in the adjoining room. You will be my guests for a while.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Delaney turned about, only to ask abruptly over his shoulder, “But I get the impression that was what you planned on, Mary?”

  “Of course not, sir!”

  He frowned at her, and Mary, unable to control her limpid gaze, dropped her head and wrung her hands. “Oh, when Miss Chauncey gets the bit between her teeth! I’ll go to her now, sir.”

  “Yes, certainly. We will share the nursing. You’ll find her in one of my nightshirts. You can change her when she’s well enough.”

  Delaney counted the soft chimes. Twelve strokes. Midnight. Mary was, he hoped, finally asleep in the adjoining room. He’d had to order her to get some sleep, and had gotten the distinct impression that she was afraid to leave her mistress alone with him. “I am not a rapist,” he’d said sharply. “You won’t be any good to her if you collapse from lack of rest.”

  It was Lucas, however, who had turned the trick. “Come on, girl,” he’d said in the softest voice Delaney had ever heard from him. “I’ll make sure you’re called if she worsens.”

  “But her hair will tangle dreadfully if I don’t braid it!”

  “It already has,” Delaney said. “You can worry about it tomorrow.”

  No, Delaney thought as the twelfth chime faded away, I’m not a rapist. But I should love having you in my arms, having you moan with pleasure when I kiss you and touch you. “Fool,” he muttered to himself. “Ass.” He was startled when she groaned softly. He immediately rose and bent over her. “There now, it’s all right,” he said, gently pulling tendrils of hair away from her forehead.

  Her eyes opened. They were dilated, appearing nearly black in the dim lamplight. “Father,” she whispered. She raised her hand, her fingers lightly touching his cheek. “Father.”

  “I’m here,” he said. “I won’t leave you, Chauncey.”

  “I was so stupid to believe I wanted to marry him. He’s a prig, Father. But you never realized, never knew . . .”

  She broke off, closing her eyes a moment.

  “No, you won’t marry him, Chauncey. A prig is not for you.”

  “Aunt Gussie was so angry,” she murmured in an odd singsong voice. “You left me, Father. Left me in her care.” She began to shudder, twisting her head about on the pillow.

  “You’re no longer in her care,” he said firmly, speaking very clearly. “Do you hear me, Chauncey? Aunt Gussie has nothing to do with you now.”

  “They only wanted me when I became rich. And Owen. He’s a toad. I didn’t belong to anyone.” Silent tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.

  He wiped them away, listening to more rambling words. He had had experience once with a man who was delirious. He’d learned damning truths. But this gently bred girl. What damning things were in her past? Things that made her cry so hopelessly.

  “Ginger, they sold her. Said I was in mourning and shouldn’t ride. God, the months! Uncle Paul . . . why are you doing that? They hate me . . . hate me.”

  He couldn’t hold her steady. He swung himself onto the bed beside her and turned her carefully against him, careful of her bandaged ribs. He stroked her hair, caressed her throat and shoulders, all the while whispering nonsense to her. She quieted finally, falling into an uneasy sleep, and he breathed a sigh of relief. She brought her hand up, fisting it against his shoulder as would a small child.

  “I think your plan worked too well,” he said ruefully, and lightly kissed her mouth.

  11

  “I can’t breathe!” The words erupted from her throat, the pain they brought making them sound like a weak croaking sound. “The bandage, Mary, I can’t breathe.”

  “You hold still, Miss Chauncey. I’ll get help!”

  Mary wheeled about and headed toward the door. It opened abruptly and Delaney entered.

  “Sir, the bandage is too tight! She’s hurting dreadfully!”

  He felt the leap of fear and repressed it. “Let me see,” he said calmly.

  He sat down beside her, watching her face contort with each breath she drew. “Chauncey,” he said firmly, drawing her eyes to his face. “Take shallow breaths. That’s it. Slowly . . .”

  It was his intention to loosen the bands of linen that Saint had wrapped around her ribs, but he realized belatedly that she was still wearing his nightshirt. He would have to practically strip her to get the job done. “Mary,” he said over his shoulder, “tell Lucas to fetch Doc Morris.”

  Delaney laid his hand lightly against her ribs, trying to determine if the cloths were too tight. He could feel each breath she drew. “No, more slowly, Chauncey. Light, shallow breaths. Good girl.”

  “I am not eight years old!” she said between gritted teeth.

  “That’s for damned sure. If you were, I wouldn’t have to worry about offending your maidenly sensibilities. Now, do as I tell you.”

  She didn’t care what he called her, not now. Every breath hurt, hurt so much she wanted to cry. He kept saying over and over, “Shallow breaths. That’s right, shallow breaths.”

  And she obeyed his instructions.

  “Well,” Saint said, striding into the room, “Miss Mary here tells me our patient needs to have the bandages loosened.”

  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.”