Fern Read online

  “I do not think that is a good remedy,” she said between clenched teeth.

  “I don’t give a damn what you think. You, my dear, are not a doctor.”

  “No, I am not as you keep reminding me, but allowing the leeches to suck her blood when she is so sick is only going to make her worse.”

  “And how do you draw that conclusion when you weren’t smart enough to search for any bullet fragments before sewing her up?”

  His insult touched a nerve, and she winced.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Experience.”

  He eyed her.

  “What experience would that be?”

  “From working with my father. We should let the wound weep while I apply the poultice, and you can administer the proper medication.”

  He laughed. It was a loud guffaw laced with arrogance. “I am not going to stand here and listen to your assumptions of what you think should be done.” He pushed Fern out of the way and walked toward Ivy sitting at the table. “Girl, go and fetch me four leeches from the river.”

  Ivy looked at Fern.

  “Do not look at your sister. I am commanding you to do this.”

  “But—

  “Do you want to save your sister?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “Then go!”

  She leapt from the chair.

  “Ivy, do not go anywhere,” Fern said. “Sit back down.” She turned toward Pete. “When will you give her some medicine?” It was the sole reason she’d wanted Gabe to bring him here. Poppy needed something more than what Fern could give her to work on the infection inside of her body even after the bullet was removed.

  “I am not,” he answered.

  “Why?”

  “I see no reason for it.”

  There were plenty of reasons, and just looking at Poppy was enough to determine a handful of them. Fern’s lips thinned as she bit down hard enough to cause her jaw to ache.

  “What will you do if the leeches don’t work?”

  He spared Poppy a glance while he rolled up the cuffs on his white shirt. “Let nature decide.”

  Fern stepped toward him. “You will do no such thing. If you have come here to prove a point, which I think is so, then you can roll down your sleeves and leave.”

  “You’re an imbecile,” he spat the words, “a derelict who cannot see that what you are doing is a hazard to those around you!”

  Gabe didn’t care much for Pete Miller and over the last hour he’d begun to despise the bastard. The man had it out for Fern. It didn’t matter what she said or did, he’d find a way to make it negative.

  He wanted nothing more than to run his fist into the man’s flapping jaw, but he knew that wouldn’t help the sick girl. The doctor would get what he had coming to him, and Gabe would be sure to be the one to deliver it.

  “Please leave,” Fern said, arms crossed over her chest.

  Pete shrugged, walked to the door and picked up his satchel. “You should leave well enough alone, especially after what happened to your mother.”

  Fern straightened. Her eyes misted.

  “What are you talking about?” Gabe asked, placing his hand on Fern’s shoulder.

  “She hasn’t told you? I am not surprised.” Pete looked at Fern. “It’s a family secret isn’t it?”

  She leaned into Gabe, and he felt an overwhelming need to protect her.

  “Doctor Montgomery poisoned his wife with doll’s eye.”

  “Get out!” Fern screamed.

  Ivy placed her hands over her ears as fat tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Think she’s still innocent of the crime, Sheriff?” Pete asked.

  He wasn’t sure what to believe, but right now all he cared about was getting Pete Miller out of the cabin. He’d discuss what he’d just heard with Fern in private.

  “You need to leave,” he said.

  “You’ll be sorry. There isn’t much left to do for the girl. You waited too long. The bullet has poisoned her blood, and she will die.”

  “You seem to expect that outcome,” Gabe said, coming around Fern to face the other man.

  “It is what I know. Being educated gives me that knowledge.”

  “I’d say experience is right along with education,” Gabe retorted.

  “Maybe, but in this circumstance no amount of experience Fern has, which is very little, will save her sister.”

  “Is it not your job to administer the proper care to those in need?”

  Pete fixed the collar around his coat. “It is.”

  “Then give the girl the medicine.”

  “As I’ve said earlier, I see no need.”

  “Bullshit, Doc. The girl is ill. She needs all the help she can get.”

  “I’ve done all I can here.”

  “Have you seen Robby Fuller?” Gabe’s question stopped Pete from walking out the door.

  He shook his head.

  “He hasn’t come by to see his wife?”

  “No.”

  “Seems odd since he’s aware of what happened.”

  “I do not know the comings and goings of Robby Fuller.”

  “Why is it that you never asked how Poppy was shot, or who did it?”

  “I was not concerned with the act, but merely the reaction,” Pete stammered.

  “Don’t go far, Doc. I’ll be stopping by soon,” Gabe warned.

  “I should bloody hope so. I cannot keep Sarah Fuller’s body much longer.”

  “There is no need to. You can proceed with the burial.”

  Pete’s pointy chin jutted out as he flexed his jaw. “Are you not bringing in Fern to look at her?”

  “There’s no need.” He refused to give the man any more information. He was beginning to think the good old doctor wasn’t saying all he knew either.

  “I see.” Without another word Pete took his leave.

  Silence filled the room, and he turned toward Fern for instructions on what to do next. He’d wait to discuss the way her mother died until after they’d gotten Poppy on the mend.

  Fern stood still, her arms listless. Her head tipped toward the floor. He was sure she hid her tears. Not one for emotions, he didn’t show them, nor did he know what to do when others did, he ran his hand through his long dark hair.

  Shit.

  “I’m not leaving until she is well.” He didn’t know what else to say, how to convey he wanted to help.

  She lifted her head, and her violet eyes glowed. The longer he stayed in Fern’s presence the more his respect and admiration for her grew.

  “You don’t want to arrest me after what you just heard?”

  “We can talk about that later. Right now we need to get your sister well.”

  “Thank you.”

  Poppy’s thin body began to shake, and Fern went to her. He followed, feeling an uncontrollable need to protect the Montgomery girls. Together they bathed Poppy with the tepid water until she became lethargic again.

  “Do you have a plan?” he asked.

  “There has to be something I can give her. Something that will work similar to the medicine I wanted Pete to administer.” She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous habit he’d noted since being here.

  She raced to the bookshelf on the wall opposite of them, and pulled a thick blue book from the ledge. She rifled through the pages, flipping them with enough force that she ripped one. Disregarding the torn sheet, she continued to scour the pages until she stopped. Her lips mouthed the words as she read silently. She slammed the book closed, and he followed her to the counter where she grabbed a stem with four white bulbs on it from the windowsill.

  “What is that?”

  “Garlic.” She held it up to his nose and he made a face.

  “That is some powerful stuff.”

  “Yes, and we are going to fill this cabin with its scent by the time we are done.”

  “What is its use?”

  “It has many healing elements, and one of them is fighting infection. It is also used to flavor food
.”

  “Great. Are we going to feed that to Poppy?”

  “Yes, but I will need to peel and crush the garlic first, then I will cover it in honey, that way it will be easier for her to swallow.” She pulled a white bulb from the stem and slammed it onto the counter. It broke into four teardrop shaped pieces. “Once the wound itself is cleaned I will use my crushed yarrow leaves to make a poultice and draw out the infection.”

  “And after we’ve done all of that?”

  She paused to stare at him. “We pray.”

  Chapter Nine

  It had been hours since they’d given Poppy the last strong dose of garlic. Fern brought the candle from the table to the bed stand and sat down. She’d need the extra light to place the poultice of crushed yarrow on Poppy’s wound. It’d be the third one.

  She wiped the cut down with warm water, and with sure fingers pressed the yarrow into the wound. The gash could no longer be open; and it was time to stitch the skin together. She pulled the thread from the whiskey bottle.

  Drenched from the liquor, she strung the needle and began to meticulously sew the laceration. Minutes passed before she was done. Satisfied with the neat row of stitches, she went about mixing more yarrow with the beeswax. She pressed it together within her palm, mixing the ingredients together. When she was done, she lathered the stitches and skin, leaving it uncovered.

  She sat back, unwound her hair from the braid and rubbed her tired scalp.

  Ivy sat in the chair by the table asleep, a thick quilt wrapped around her small body. She was glad the girl had finally dozed off. She’d been worried about Poppy to the point where she’d been getting in Fern and Gabe’s way as they tried to work.

  The cabin was quiet, lit by the warm glow of a few candles, and she whispered a short prayer for her sister to get better. She clasped Poppy’s hand in her own. The convulsions from her fever had gone, but it didn’t mean the girl was out of the woods yet. Her skin was still red and warm. She refused to think what life would be like without her sister. The thought brought waves of nausea crawling up her throat, making it difficult to swallow.

  She sighed, dunked the cloth into the basin of cool water, wrung it out and placed it on Poppy’s forehead. Her own eyes heavy, she massaged them with her fingertips. She hadn’t slept since yesterday, and her body was telling her she needed to rest. She flexed her shoulders and gave her head a little shake to wake herself. She couldn’t relax until Poppy was out of danger.

  Gabe eased through the door with an armload of logs. He went to the fireplace and carefully placed them on the floor so as not to wake Ivy.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, unsure if he’d heard her, but so tired she didn’t have the energy to repeat it.

  “How is she doing?” He nodded toward Poppy as he knelt beside the hearth to stoke the log with a metal poker before adding another piece of wood.

  “The fever has come down a bit, but otherwise the same.” She couldn’t hide the distress in her voice.

  “Do you have coffee here?”

  “On the third shelf beside the sugar.

  “How about a cup?”

  “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Well, now is a good time to start.”

  He smiled, and her insides melted. She wasn’t familiar with the emotions stirring inside of her when he was near, and she didn’t care to explore them either. Poppy was ill and once she was better, he’d go back to accusing her of murder.

  He rummaged through the cupboards until he found the tin labeled coffee.

  She was a tea drinker, but she didn’t care to tell him, and since he was making she’d not be picky. She smoothed the red hair from Poppy’s cheeks, brushing it back with her fingers. Please, God let her get well.

  He pulled a chair from the corner and sat beside her. His cheeks covered with the start of a beard, the black whiskers concealed most of the scar on the left side of his face. She wondered how he’d gotten such an awful injury.

  “It’ll take a bit for the grounds to sweat into the pot,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

  She nodded.

  “She will get better.”

  His words surprised her.

  “I hope so.”

  “How long before we know if she’s in the clear?”

  She glanced at Poppy. “The next twenty four hours will tell us.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t expect you to stay. I know you have other priorities.”

  He stared at her for a long while, his black eyes revealing honesty and something else she couldn’t quite place. She pulled her gaze from his, drawn to him, to his scent, to his strength. His shirt sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and she let herself imagine what his arms might feel like wrapped around her—protecting her from the outside world, from those who wanted to harm her. She yearned for his fingers to caress her, want her—love her. As quick as the fantasy came, she squashed it with the reality of what her life had become—of who she was and why any man might want her.

  “I want to be here, Fern.”

  “You’re the sheriff of Manchester, surely you have work to attend to.”

  “I’ve got a deputy to cover for me.”

  “You do?”

  “Bill Holt, an old Texas Ranger.” He gave her a sideways look. “How often do you go to town?”

  “I like to keep to myself.”

  “Because of Mayor Smith?”

  “He is one of the reasons, yes.”

  “I gathered you’ve turned him down a time or two?”

  There was no need to answer him. Nothing seemed to get by him, and she guessed his inquisitive nature came with the job.

  “How did you get the scar?” she asked.

  She didn’t miss the way his eye twitched, or how his jaw tensed.

  “When I was twelve my family’s homestead was attacked by outlaws. The Drummond Gang was wanted in six states for armed robbery and murder. They killed my father, mother and older brother, Hank. My sister was in town at a friend’s.” He blew out a loud breath before continuing. “I was coming in from the fields. I saw them and was able to peg a few off, but I was young and they caught me. The leader, Charlie Drummond, took his knife to my face as payback for killing two of his men.”

  “Why didn’t they kill you too?”

  “I passed out from the pain.” He shrugged. “Guess it took their fun away.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He averted his eyes from hers. “After I got well, I took my sister to my aunt’s and hunted every last one of them down.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t know what to say to ease the pain she’d seen in his eyes. She’d lost both her parents but not like he had. Her heart ached for the boy who had to witness such horror.

  “It must’ve been awful.” She reached for his hand.

  His eyes met hers, holding her captive—raw, piercing, genuine.

  She leaned into him.

  He stood, went to the stove and poured two cups of coffee.

  She spread out the wrinkles in her skirt, trying to collect herself and her unruly thoughts.

  “Here you go.” He handed her a cup.

  “Thank you.”

  She took a slow sip and made a face. Not at all like her teas. The coffee was much bolder and very bitter.

  “Putting sugar or milk in it may help with the flavoring,” he suggested.

  “I think I’ll stick to tea.”

  He chuckled around his cup.

  The sound caressed her soul. She longed for the companionship she’d seen within her mother and father’s relationship.

  “How did your mother die?”

  She’d been waiting for it, the question he’d wanted to ask since Pete Miller left. All previous emotions disappeared, replaced with anxiety. Dread coated her skin in a sheen veil of moisture. There was nothing left to do but tell him the truth.

  Not one for lies or false stories, she’d face his accusation
s, his doubts and pray he believed her to be a good honest person who had nothing to gain from poisoning a friend. If he didn’t…she’d be crushed, not because she’d be tossed in jail, but because he did not trust her.

  She inhaled, holding the breath within her lungs until it burned.

  “She was given too much doll’s eye during child birth.” The words rushed out in one breath.

  “Who gave it to her?”

  Memories flooded her mind. Her mother writhing in pain, the baby stuck, lots of blood, her father desperate to save her.

  “My father.” She hung her head, but not before she saw the shocked look in his eyes.

  “He was a doctor. Why would he poison his own wife?”

  Her head shot up.

  “He did not poison my mother. I told you earlier the root of the doll’s eye can be boiled for a tea to help with childbirth, coughs and chest pains.”

  “How did she die then?”

  She sighed.

  “My father never used it before. He’d only read about the effects it had. He was flustered, and worried for my mother already. He would’ve tried anything. He didn’t know how much to give, or what part of the plant was the most poisonous. If he didn’t do something she was going to die.” She closed her eyes; seeing her mother slip away, the memory still haunted her. She swallowed past the regret and continued. “He gave her the white berries…she died within minutes.”

  “And the baby?”

  “A boy, died inside the womb.”

  “He poisoned them both?”

  She nodded.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, surprised.

  “He was distraught for weeks afterward. He refused to attend the funeral, he couldn’t work, wouldn’t eat. I took care of the girls and tried everything to make him come back to us.”

  “Did he?”

  “No,” she whispered. “After a few months he packed up everything, and we moved west. I don’t think he knew where we were going. It was pure chance we ended up in Manchester and they needed a doctor.”

  “He was able to continue his practice here?”

  “Somewhat. He was too preoccupied with finding out how poisonous the doll’s eye was. He spent the two years after my mother died researching the effects the plant had.”