to Viola Goddard’s cabin. There is no choice here. You need care.”
He had no strength left with which to argue the matter. Time enough for that tonight, when he would be stronger. He closed his eyes and waited for the knife-like pain to subside. Felt the darkness slip over him….
“Here is the quilt from my bed, Hattie. The coverlet is fine for me.” Viola rushed from her bedroom into the living room, the quilt overflowing her arms. “If we double it, you should be nice and warm here on the settle.”
Hattie stopped tucking the sheet around the thick, feather tick that padded the seat of the long, wood settle, faced Viola and fisted her hands on her ample hips. “Stop fussin’, Viola! I been takin’ care of myself for close to seventy years, and I reckon I can do so now. This mattress we’ve fixed up here on the settle will make as fine a bed as any I’ve e’er slept on. Now, go on with fixin’ up that bed for Mr. Stone, and leave me get my work done.”
“You are a pure gem, Hattie!” Viola hugged the short, round woman, then dropped to her knees beside Goldie, who was lying on her back on the braided rag rug, waving a rattle and cooing. “And so are you, little Miss Goldie.” She grabbed the baby’s free hand, kissed the tiny palm and then kissed her way up the pudgy little arm to her round, rosy cheek. The baby squealed, laughed and kicked her feet.
A knock on the door stopped the play. “That must be Mr. Carson to pick up his mending.” Viola rose and shook out her long skirt, brushed back a curl that had escaped her snood, and went to answer the door. “Oh, Mr. Foster. I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I know I’m early, Miss Goddard, but I got a chance to join up with three other men going up to Dawson today. Heard tell there’s been some new sites opened up, where the gold is just laying on the ground waiting for someone to scoop it up. I aim to be that someone.” The wiry little man grinned. “I’m hoping I don’t have to go without those shirts you was mending for me. That blue one is my lucky shirt.”
Viola nodded and stepped back to let him come inside. “Your lucky shirt is ready. As are the rest. I’ll get them for you.”
She walked to the large wardrobe where she kept her sewing work, and pulled out the shirts tied up in a neat package. “Here you are, Mr. Foster. I hope your blue shirt works for you.”
“It will.” The man took the package, glanced up at her. “Having you sew it up will make it doubly lucky, Miss Goddard. Tell you what— When I strike it rich I’ll give you half!”
Viola stiffened. She wiped the smile from her face and cooled her voice by several degrees. “Fair payment for the mending is all I want, Mr. Foster.”
He nodded, looked down. “I reckon I know that by now, Miss Goddard. My payment is in the scale.” He made a little bow. “Good day to you. And to you, Hattie Marsh.” He walked away whistling.
“And to you, John Foster! You old fool.” Hattie’s voice was rough with hurt. “Go on and join the others who risk their lives o’er and o’er, just cause some miner gets drunk and starts spinnin’ tall tales about gold just waitin’ to be claimed.” The elderly woman snapped the quilt through the air, folded it and jammed one side down between the mattress and the back of the settle. “Old fools ne’er learn! But at least that one doesn’t have a wife to leave behind, lonely and grievin’ when he don’t come back.”
“Oh, Hattie.” Viola rushed over and put her arm around the plump woman’s shoulders. “Your husband never meant to leave you.”
“I know. None of them do. That’s why they’re old fools! And him no better than the worst of them. Sellin’ all we had to outfit hisself for minin’ gold. Then dyin’ up there. And me left with no one to care about me, nothin’ in my pocket and nowhere to go. It was a blessin’ when you took me in and gave me a home, Viola Goddard. A true blessin’.” Hattie patted her hand and smiled up at her. “You’re my family now. You and little Goldie. Now, go put the dust from the scales in your poke, and get back to work on that bed. No tellin’ when Dr. Calloway will be bringin’ your patient.”
Chapter Three
Pulsing pain pulled him out of the darkness. Thomas tried to move his left arm, gritted his teeth at the sudden stabbing anguish in his chest. He gathered his strength against it, opened his eyes and stared up at the rough board and beam ceiling. A soft cocoon of warmth held him. A hint of roses, coming from the bedding, encouraged him to breathe deeply, to capture more of a distant memory of his mother sitting on the lawn, doing needle-point while he played at her feet.
The dusky light of a midnight sun cast an ambient glow over the room, softening the edges of the rocks on the chimney climbing the opposite wall to the ceiling. He slewed his gaze left, toward the window that ceded entrance to the purple and gold twilight. Curtains softened the hard lines of the frame. Where was he? He frowned, willing the fuzziness away.
A rustle of fabric, soft footfalls interrupted his effort, cleared his head. He didn’t have to look their way, didn’t want to look their way. He knew who was there.
Viola Goddard stepped into his line of vision, glanced down at him. The connection he’d felt the first time their gazes met burgeoned. “You’re awake, Mr. Stone. Would you like some water?”
What he would like was to be in his hut. But judging from the pain and the weakness in his body, that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. “Please. My mouth…dry…”
She turned away.
He closed his eyes, summoned physical strength for the effort to lift his head and drink the water, and inner strength to resist the pull of his emotions toward this woman caring for him. He’d never felt so helpless. For an ungracious moment, he wished the kidnapper was miserable. There was a clink of glass, a small gurgle.
“I shall have to give you the water from a spoon.”
He opened his eyes, stared up at her.
“Doctor’s orders. You’re not to move.”
He couldn’t stop the frown.
She didn’t comment, merely held a napkin against his chin and offered the spoon. He fought back the urge to turn away and parted his lips. She parted her own and leaned forward. The spoon touched his mouth, water moistened his tongue. He felt the soothing coolness trickle toward his parched throat and swallowed, tried to keep his attention focused on the sensation. It was an abysmal failure. When half the glass was gone, he gave up the fight. He’d had enough. Not of the water, but of the sight of Viola Goddard leaning over him, her violet-blue eyes warm with sympathy. He closed his eyes, heard the soft rustle of her dress as she straightened and moved away, the soft clink of the glass as she set it down. Help me, Lord. Help me to fight this sense of connection, and feel nothing but gratitude for this woman. You know I made a vow to never—
“Mr. Stone, please open your mouth once more. The doctor instructed me to give you a dose of this medicine as soon as you awoke. It will ease your pain.”
He considered feigning slumber, but the agony in his chest and shoulder overruled the idea. He opened his eyes, took the medicine and closed them again. There were soft footfalls, the creak of caning in a chair and the whisper of rockers against the floor. He tried to will away the image of Viola Goddard’s beautiful eyes, fringed with dark-brown lashes so long and thick they looked like velvet, her full, rose-colored lips and the wisps of dark red curls brushing against her forehead. He failed, and slipped into oblivion,
