Fern Page 5

  “When were you going to divulge that bit of information to me?” he growled.

  “I didn’t see the point.” She glanced back at him. “You were too busy accusing me of murder.”

  “Damn it, I was doing my job.” He was still stunned she hadn’t said a word about the shooting. Why would she hide that from him? Didn’t she trust him? He stared at her, back rigid, shoulders straight and head tilted away from him. Her guard was up, and he was the reason. Trust didn’t come easy for someone like Fern, and with most of the town against her it wasn’t likely she’d be giving that sentiment away anytime soon.

  It explained why she almost shot him when he arrived. He guessed she couldn’t use the gun any better than a schoolmarm. Poppy was a crack shot. Now that she was injured with what looked to be a nasty infection, Fern was left to defend the family and their land.

  “Did you dig the bullet out?”

  I didn’t have to. It grazed her skin, leaving the long tear.”

  “Did he only fire one shot?”

  “Yes, and took off into the hills.”

  “You hadn’t the time to fire back?”

  She paused. Her hands shook, and he noted the tremble in her voice. “I didn’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I…I was worried about Poppy,” she snapped.

  “How did you know he wasn’t aiming at you? Natural instinct is to defend oneself. Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He’d bet there was more to her denial than what she was saying. In fact he’d trade his horse if he were wrong. Fern Montgomery wouldn’t hurt a fly even if the damn thing were hell bent on killing her—which meant she didn’t poison her friend on purpose…but possibly by accident.

  She could feel his gaze upon her and remained the same, trying to ignore him. He asked such personal questions, ones she was not prepared to answer. She straightened. Right now he was the least of her worries. Poppy was ill, and she needed to make her better.

  She stared at the blazing wound. It didn’t make sense. How had Poppy gotten an infection? She’d only been shot this morning, and Fern had cleaned the lesion right away. She needed to think—to go through the list of healing herbs in her mind and find one that would work. It didn’t help that Gabe was standing so close, blocking her concentration.

  “Fern?” Ivy’s feathery voice floated toward her.

  She glanced up at her sister, cheeks flushed, blonde hair hanging loose from her braids to frame round cheeks. She loved both of her sisters very much, and the thought of something happening to them caused her insides to ache and her throat to close.

  “Yes?”

  “Is Poppy all right?”

  She didn’t believe in lying. The truth should always be told.

  “She has an infection, but I am going to do everything I can to get her better.”

  “Is she sick like mama was?”

  She tipped her head away from Gabe so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. Their mother died in Boston when Ivy was five. The death traumatized the whole family, Fern especially.

  “No, my sweet. It is not the same as mama.”

  The girl nodded, came toward her, and laid her head on Fern’s shoulder.

  “You’ll make Poppy well. I know it.”

  She smiled and squeezed her sister to her in a long hug.

  “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

  Ivy nodded.

  Fern slapped her hands together. She needed to find a new remedy for the infection. Staying busy was best so she didn’t go insane with worry. She took the soiled bandages and handed them to Ivy.

  “Place these in the bucket outside the door. We will burn them later.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “What can I do?” Gabe asked.

  She’d forgotten he was still there.

  “You mean to stay?”

  His dark eyes softened.

  “If it’s okay.”

  She didn’t know what to say, how to answer him. No one had offered help to her before, even when pa was sick. She wasn’t sure what to make of Gabe. Could she trust him, and if she did, what would he do when he found out about her past?

  “I will need water brought in from the well and boiled on the stove.”

  He nodded and left to do her bidding.

  Fern hurried into the garden room. She searched the shelves of plants and herbs. She reached for the aloe on the third shelf and placed it behind her on the small table; she’d need it once the infection was gone. The sticky salve from the prickly leaves was great for diminishing redness and irritation once the wound had scabbed. She thumbed the thyme, rosemary and basil then she came to the slippery elm. A green leafed plant used for burns, skin infections, swelling of the lungs and throat due to sickness. This is what she’d use. She’d need to make a powder substance in order for the plant to work quickly on Poppy’s wound.

  With the pot of slippery elm held tight to her bosom, she went to the kitchen to prepare the plant to be ground.

  Gabe had put the water on to boil and was watching her intently.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am going to use this to make a poultice and draw out the infection.”

  She placed the leaves in the stone mortar, and using the pestle, she ground them into a grainy powder.

  “What kind of plant is that?”

  “Slippery elm. It is used by most Indian tribes to heal burns, skin infections and when steeped, it cures the throat of swelling and pain.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “My father taught me, and I read…a lot.”

  “Read what?”

  “My father had acquired Culpeper’s Complete Herbal book written by Nicolas Culpeper in 1653. He paid a fair price for it too. He was passionate about studying the text and applying it to his practice.”

  She stood on tiptoes and grabbed the jar of beeswax beside the homemade blueberry jam.

  “What is that?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was curious or if he was still investigating her, and she hadn’t the time to distinguish between the two.

  “This is beeswax. It is good for inflammation and swelling. I will place the poultice on the wound then lather a thin layer of beeswax to seal it.”

  “You have bees here too?”

  She scooped up the mortar, cradling it within the crook of her arm. Before she could grab the beeswax, he placed his large hand over the lid and lifted it from the counter.

  “No, I buy the wax and honey from Mr. Davenport. He lives a few miles east of here.”

  “I know where the Davenports live.”

  She peeked at him through her lashes. The furrow of his brows told her he was not happy with her cheeky comment. She shrugged off his irritation. Pleasing him was the last thing on her mind.

  “I’ll need the water, please.”

  He placed the beeswax on the table beside Poppy’s bed and fetched the water.

  She leaned back to allow him to place the pot onto the floor in front of her. His nearness caused her heart to race and cheeks to flush. She held her breath until he was standing beside her again, and she reached for the cloth. Careful not to burn herself, she dipped the cloth into the scalding water before she gently wiped the festering wound.

  “He doesn’t think you’re crazy like the other men in town?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Davenport.”

  “He does, but he needs to make a living as well.”

  “I see.”

  She paused, annoyed at his brash conclusions of her. He knew nothing about her or her sisters, yet he was no different than all the others who cast their judgment on them.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I understand why men won’t come to see you.”

  “Is that so, Sheriff.”

  “You’re a woman.”

  “By golly you’ve got it. All of this time I thought it was because they were sissies.”

  “Very funny. I mean
to say the men of Manchester feel threatened by you. It is clear you know what you’re doing.”

  “Why, thank you, but I think it is much simpler than that.”

  “How so?”

  “I am a woman, yes, but they see all women as married, mothers and serving their men.”

  “You don’t see yourself as a wife or mother?”

  She snickered.

  “I am too strong willed and independent for any man to look my way.”

  He stepped toward her, and placed his hand upon her shoulder. She leaned away from him until he no longer touched her. She did not need his remorse. She chose this life and she’d live it, even if that meant alone.

  Chapter Eight

  Gabe searched the bench on the front porch where Fern had said the bullet was lodged. He was sure the slug had come apart and that was why Poppy had caught the infection so soon. He needed to be certain before he told Fern she’d have to open the girl up and dig out the remaining bullet fragments.

  Thankfully the shot hadn’t struck an organ; the result could’ve been fatal. As it was now, Fern was working overtime to keep the girl’s fever and infection at bay.

  He pulled the knife from the sheath on his belt when he spotted the metal slug in the backing of the pine bench. Careful not to wreck the family heirloom, he gently picked away at the bullet until it popped from the wood and into his hand.

  It was as he expected, a piece of the bullet was missing. He clenched the shot within his fist. Was Robby Fuller’s intention to kill Poppy Montgomery, or injure her? Gabe wasn’t sure, but it did seem odd that Robby hadn’t aimed at Fern instead. She was the one who befriended his wife, and who the doc accused of murder.

  None of it made sense. He had a bad feeling Poppy wasn’t the intended target. Someone else was behind Robby and his gun.

  He rubbed the broken bullet between his finger and thumb. Small flakes of debris stuck to his skin. He glanced back at the cabin and then to the bullet. Poppy could have more than the one piece inside of her. It was no wonder the girl was burning up with infection. He rushed inside where Fern was applying a cool cloth to Poppy’s forehead.

  “How is she?” he asked, knowing the answer by the worried look on Fern’s face.

  “She is getting worse.” Her blue eyes were shrouded in agony, begging him for an answer. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “I believe there is still some of the bullet left inside of her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He showed her the bullet.

  She ran her hand across her forehead and down her face.

  “I will need to reopen her.”

  He nodded.

  “She is so sick already.”

  “It’s the only way. Once you remove that bullet, you can start your healing prospects all over again. Right now, they’re not doing anything.”

  “But she…she is very ill and I’ll need…” she stammered.

  “You can’t fight the infection from the outside without removing that bullet.”

  “I know. She will need more than my herbs. She needs to fight it from the inside too.”

  “How does she do that?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip.

  He sensed her confusion and doubt. In the short time he’d known her she’d never let a hint of uncertainty escape past her lips.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  She lifted fearful eyes to his. “Get the doctor. He’ll know of something else to give her, better than what I have here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I…I’m…”

  “Fern?”

  “I think that’d be best.”

  He stared down at her, seated on the short stool beside her sister, hair messed and tangled, eyes red with unshed tears, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. He admired her. She’d cast her pride to the dogs to save her sister.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder. His intention to comfort her, but when he touched her, his chest swelled and an ache he’d not known before resonated inside of him. Instead of yanking his hand away he left it there, and watched as she leaned toward him. She had no idea of the slight move she’d made, too caught up in her concern for Poppy, but he was fully aware of her—and the way she made him feel.

  Fern paced the floor, stopping every few feet to peer outside for Gabe. He’d been gone for over two hours, and she was growing restless. Dusk had fallen, casting the yard in dark shadows. Poppy’s condition had worsened in the time passed. She was now convulsing from the high fever. Fern needed to remove the stitches, but could not do it without Gabe and Doc Miller’s help. She ordered Ivy to fetch more cool water from the well and went back to sit with her sister as another fit came over her.

  Ivy came through the door, and she rushed to grab the bucket of water from her.

  “I need you stay by the window and watch for Gabe.” She saw the red circles around Ivy’s eyes and knew the young girl had been crying while outside. She yearned to comfort her, but there was no time. Right now they needed to stay strong for Poppy.

  “Things will work out,” she whispered.

  “Do you promise?” Ivy’s bottom lip shook.

  Fern couldn’t answer her. How was she to promise something she had no control of? She was supposed to be able to help those in need with her plants, but she’d tried the two she used often and neither worked. Poppy’s condition was her fault. She hadn’t looked for any bullet fragments when cleaning the wound. If she’d done so her sister wouldn’t be battling an infection that could kill her. She knew better. She assumed the bullet had made a clean break of the skin. She’d been wrong—very wrong. As all possibilities came to a head, she was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Fern?”

  She met Ivy’s eyes.

  “Do you promise?”

  “I—

  The door opened, slamming against the kitchen table. Gabe pushed a very disgruntled Pete Miller into the cabin.

  “Sorry it took me so long. I had some negotiating to do,” Gabe said as he glared at Pete.

  “Yes, well now that you’ve dragged me here what is it you want me to do for the girl?” he yapped.

  Fern steadied herself and took four deep breaths before answering the arrogant man.

  “As you can see my sister is ill. I didn’t think…” She wrung her hands. “I hadn’t checked for any fragments of the bullet inside of her and instead I sewed her up. I’ve tried everything to heal the wound from the outside, but I’m afraid there is still some of the bullet to be removed.”

  “I am not surprised coming from a woman who does not have a medical degree. Do you see why operating your little garden of fixes is dangerous to the people of Manchester?”

  “I see nothing of the sort. I am not blind to the fact that not all things can be cured with herbs, roots and plants. However, I do see the need for other remedies to the opium you seem to hand out like candy sticks.”

  “I can see I am not needed here.” Pete turned to leave, but was stopped by Gabe’s hand.

  “You’re staying.” He turned his attention to Fern. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I think the best thing is to remove the stitches, find the missing piece, clean the wound and apply another poultice,” she answered, feeling stronger with him there. “If Doctor Miller would give her something to kill the infection from the inside that would help.”

  “Do not tell me how to do my job, or what to give to your sister. I will check her over before I determine what she needs.”

  Fern stepped aside to allow him to come near Poppy.

  “I should let her die. That will teach you to stop with all of this nonsense.” He waved his hand in the air.

  Gabe stepped toward him, and Fern grabbed his shirt.

  “We need to help Poppy,” she whispered.

  “She is toxic,” Pete said.

  “We know that, Doc,” Gabe growled. “It’s from the bullet.”

  “I see. So you did not dig the bullet o
ut?”

  “No, it just grazed the skin, but a piece is still inside of her,” Fern answered.

  “Pathetic. You are a waste of good flesh and bones.”

  Fern inhaled but remained silent.

  “Pete,” Gabe snarled.

  “I will need to open her up and dig for the missing piece.”

  “I will help,” Fern answered.

  “No, you will not. In fact you will wait outside while I operate.”

  Her stomach twisted, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood. “I will remain here beside you.”

  He looked at Gabe. “Remove her at once.”

  “No can do, Doc. This is her place, and that is her sister.”

  The man blew out a loud breath and rummaged through his bag. “Stay out of my way,” he ground out.

  Fern stepped to the end of the bed as he cut the stitches and pulled them from Poppy’s inflamed skin. The gash oozed a dark red with strings of yellow through it; a clear sign of infection.

  With two sterling silver tools, he poked and prodded the wound for the other half of the bullet. The process seemed to go on forever. Fern began to lose hope when he pulled the metal piece from Poppy’s side and tossed it onto the table beside the bed.

  “Thank you,” she breathed.

  He raised an eyebrow and turned away from her.

  “What now?” Gabe asked.

  “I want to reapply the poultice before stitching her back up,” Fern replied.

  “That will not work. You will need to fetch leeches,” Pete said.

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

  “I will place the leeches over the wound, and they will suck out the infection. It is called bloodletting, a process I’m sure you know nothing about.”

  She knew all about it and from the reading she’d done, the outcome was never great.

  “No.”

  He swung around, coming within inches of her face. “You call me here to rescue your sister, and when I suggest a remedy to the problem you refuse?”

  She shrunk away from him, her back knocking into Gabe’s chest. He was behind her, supporting her on any decision she made. He trusted her. He believed she could save her sister. She inhaled, stood taller, forced her chin up and narrowed her eyes.