son of a bitch.”
John held his pistol steady. “I don’t believe in turning the other cheek when innocent lives are at stake, but when it’s just my life, I’m a generous man. What’s it going to be, Ed? You can drop the knife or I’ll shoot.”
When Ed squinted like a rat, John decided to give him a lesson in arithmetic. “You’ve got three seconds. One…two…”
“Ah, hell.” Ed dropped the knife to the floor and sent it skittering toward John, letting go of Abbie at the same time. “No woman’s worth dying for.”
John thought Ed was dead wrong. Abbie was worth every drop of blood dripping down his side, but that was his secret to keep.
Still aiming the gun at Ed, he said, “Beth, fetch your things. Abbie, get Robbie and whatever you need for the night. You ladies are coming home with me. Ed, though, is going to jail just as soon as Sheriff Handley gets here.”
“I’m right here, Reverend.” The sheriff strode into the room with a pair of irons in hand. “I don’t tolerate men who use knives on women.”
Only their fists, John thought, but that fight had to wait for another day. Relieved to have the ordeal over, he gave Abbie a reassuring nod as she led Beth into the hallway. As soon as Handley dragged Ed out of the room, John slid down the wall until his buttocks hit the floor.
His side was starting to hurt like the devil. Sucking in a breath, he pulled his shirt out of his waistband. He’d been a fool to leave the parsonage without his coat. The wool would have offered some protection, and Ed might have thought twice about slicing up a preacher. As things stood, the gash felt deep, but it hadn’t penetrated anything vital. As long as the wound didn’t fester, he’d be fine after someone stitched him up.
John stifled a groan. He wasn’t keen on seeing Doc Randall. The old man still talked about the good old days when he’d used leeches. John was considering sewing the cut himself when Abbie hurried into the room. Still clad in her nightgown, she dropped to her knees and pressed a wadded-up petticoat against his side. Pale and soft, it reminded him of her skin.
“Lie down,” she ordered. “Moving makes it bleed.”
“I’m all right.” John nudged her hand away and gripped the cotton. “I’ll do that. You need to get dressed.”
“I’m not going with you and neither is Beth.” Abbie sat back on her knees. “If a woman is the one to leave, a divorce can cost her everything.”
He wanted to ask how she knew such a thing, but first he had to convince her to come home with him. He knew better than to bark orders at her, so he appealed to her common sense. “I don’t trust Handley to keep Ed locked up. You won’t be safe unless I stay here.”
“Then it’s decided.”
Her mind still worked like lightning. His was fogged with pain. “What’s decided?”
“You can sleep in this room and Beth can stay with me. We can take turns looking out for you.”
The plan sounded logical, except John wanted his privacy. No, that wasn’t exactly right. He needed solitude like he needed air. He gritted his teeth. “I’m not staying here.”
Abbie looked down her nose. “Don’t be foolish. That gash doesn’t hurt right now, but tomorrow you’ll be crying like a baby.”
“Want to bet?” He hadn’t shed a tear in thirty years and he wasn’t going to start over an itty-bitty cut, even if it did need two dozen stitches. And he sure as the devil didn’t care for the thought of visitors. He wanted to lick his wounds in private. He also wanted to be sure Abbie and Beth would be safe, and he couldn’t do that here. Half the time Sally didn’t even lock her doors.
A wet cough pulled John’s gaze to the doorway where he saw Doc Randall shuffling into the room with his black bag.
“Hello, Reverend,” he said. “It looks like you’ve been fighting again.”
Abbie glared up at the doctor. “The Reverend saved Beth Davies from a beating. Her husband started the fight.”
Ignoring her, the elderly man hunched forward and let his bag drop the last six inches to the floor. As he crouched, John saw his knees wobble with the effort. “Damn floor gets lower every year,” said the doctor.
Abbie’s brows tightened with concern. “Maybe I can find a stool for you.”
“I’ll manage,” said Randall. “Just give me a minute.”
John glanced at Abbie who looked as worried about the doctor as she was about him. New Mexico generally attracted young men looking to make their fortunes, and she’d probably been expecting someone fresh out of medical college. Instead she’d just met Methuselah.
With a grunt, the doctor dropped to his hips and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. After a hearty throat-clearing, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his nose and coughed—right over John’s bleeding belly.
Abbie’s stomach curdled as a mist of spit hit her face. Doc Randall had experience, but she doubted he’d read a medical article in twenty years. He’d probably never heard of Louis Pasteur and Joseph Lister, but Abbie had. She read all the time. If Randall didn’t take precautions, an infection was almost certain.
“Doctor, would you like soap and water for your hands? Or maybe you have carbolic in your bag?”
When Randall didn’t look at her, Abbie guessed that he was hard of hearing. If he’d had carbolic, he would have used it by now, so she raised her voice and enunciated each word. “I’ll get Ed’s whiskey. Alcohol kills germs.”
Randall glared at her. “I heard you the first time, missy. All that germ talk is nonsense. Some folks get sick and some don’t. It’s the luck of the draw.”
“It’s not,” Abbie replied. “I do a lot of reading. Cleanliness is important.”
She stood and retrieved the pint Ed had been swigging. After wiping the lip of the bottle with her nightgown, she held it out to the doctor. “You should use it to clean the needle and the wound.”
Randall waved it off and pulled the edges of John’s skin together with his grimy fingers. Clenching the bottle, Abbie dropped to her knees. “Doctor, you have to—”
“Someone get this woman out of my way.”
“Listen to her, Doc,” John said. “I’d rather drink the whiskey, but what can it hurt?”
Doc Randall harrumphed. “It’s gonna hurt plenty. Do you want her to treat this wound, or me?”
Abbie forced herself to sound reasonable. “If you don’t take precautions, that cut will get infected. Even with whiskey, it might go bad.”
“It’s a waste of good liquor,” said Randall.
John shrugged. “It’s my call, Doc. Just do it.”
With a disgusted grunt, the doctor took the bottle and poured the alcohol on the wound without a warning. John cried out and clutched at the floor, but there
