sponged away the last of the blood and sanitized the wound. The instant the alcohol touched her skin, Miss Bishop groaned and arched her back.
Caleb held a restraining hand against her shoulder. “Don’t undo all of my careful work.”
She murmured something unintelligible and reached for him again. Painfully aware of his sister’s curious stare, he cradled Miss Bishop’s hand and rubbed her palm with the pad of his thumb. His touch seemed to soothe her, and he kept up the gentle movement until she calmed. The differences between them were striking. His hands were work-roughened and weather-darkened, Anna’s were pale and frighteningly delicate. A callous on the middle finger of her right hand, along with the faded ink stains where she rested her hand against the paper, indicated she wrote often.
The ease with which she trusted him tightened something in his chest. He never doubted his ability with animals. For as long as he could remember, he’d had an affinity with most anything that walked on all fours...or slithered, for that matter. Yet that skill had never translated with people. An affliction that wasn’t visited on anyone else in his family. The McCoys were a boisterous lot, gregarious and friendly. Caleb was the odd man in the bunch.
Once her chest rose and fell with even breaths, he reluctantly released his hold and sat back in his chair, then rubbed his damp fingers against his pant legs.
Her instinctive need for human touch reminded him of the thread that held them all together. All of God’s creatures sought comfort when suffering.
Voices sounded from the corridor, and Jo stood. “If that’s the surgeon, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
Mrs. Franklin tucked the blankets around Miss Bishop’s shoulders. “We should tidy the room and change the bedding. Perhaps Mr. McCoy should deal with any visitors we have.”
Caleb took the hint. “If I’m unable to locate the surgeon, I’ll check on Miss Bishop in half an hour.”
He snatched his coat and stepped into the corridor, then glanced around the now-empty space. He caught sight of the blood staining his vest and shirt and blew out a breath. The voices they’d heard had not been the surgeon’s, and he couldn’t visit the lobby with such a grisly appearance. The telling evidence discoloring his shirt also placed him at the rally, and he wasn’t ready to answer questions.
Or make himself a target.
He crossed to his room and quickly changed. Now that the immediacy of the situation had passed, exhaustion overtook him, and he collapsed onto the bed, clutching his head.
Of all the things that he’d dreaded when Jo had invited him to accompany her to Kansas City, he hadn’t anticipated this dramatic turn of events.
He took a few deep breaths and raked his hands through his hair, letting the emotion flow out of him. This happened sometimes. Once the emergency had been dealt with, he often experienced a wave of overwhelming exhaustion. The greater the emergency, the greater his fatigue. He scrubbed his hands down his face and stood, then stepped into the corridor and made his way to the lobby. There’d be time for resting later.
A man in a loose-fitting overcoat brushed past him on the staircase.
“Say, fellow,” the man said. “Were you at the rally this afternoon?”
“Yes. And you?”
Perhaps this gentleman knew if there had been any further injuries as a result of the shooting.
“Nope. I was supposed to be covering Miss Bishop’s speech for The Star paper. Figured I’d slip in for the last few minutes. Who wants to listen to them ladies whine? Now I gotta figure out what happened or the boss will have my hide. There was some kind of commotion, right?”
Caleb measured his words carefully. “There was a disturbance. The crowd scattered.”
“What kind of disturbance?”
Great. Now he’d gone and cornered himself into telling the whole of it. “A gunshot.”
The man’s eyes widened, and he gleefully rubbed his hands together, then splayed them. “I can see the headline now, Shot Fired Across the Bow of Suffragist Battle.”
The man’s elation turned Caleb’s stomach. Brushing past the reporter before he said anything more revealing, Caleb loped down the stairs and paused on the balcony overlooking the lobby. A discordance of noise hit him like a wall.
Having survived the encounter at the rally, scores of people from the audience had obviously congregated at the hotel to share their dramatic stories. Voices were raised in excitement, and more than one gentleman clutched a strong drink.
Caleb sucked in a breath and made his way across the room. He couldn’t have designed a better nightmare for himself. Twice in one day, he’d been forced into a crush of people.
Upon reaching the concierge desk, he waved over the gentleman in the bottle-green uniform he’d seen his sister approach earlier. “Did the surgeon arrive?”
The man lifted his hands. “Not that I know of. It’s been like this since the rally. It’s all we can do to keep the crowd contained in the lobby.” The concierge glanced left and right and ducked his head. “I caught a reporter upstairs, and there are several policemen waiting to speak with Miss Bishop. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
Caleb rubbed his forehead. “That would be best.”
The man cleared his throat. “I also took the liberty of removing Miss Bishop’s name from the guest register.” The man cleared his throat again. “I have your party listed in the register book as yourself, your sister and your fiancée.”
Caleb’s head shot up. “Say again?”
“I have a large staff. I can handpick the workers on the fourth floor. I cannot guarantee the characters of all my employees.”
“But fiancée?”
The man lifted his hands as though in surrender. “The title seemed the least likely one for Miss Bishop to take. Since she’s a, you know, she’s a...”
“She’s a suffragist. It’s not a profanity.”
“My apologies, sir. I can change the register.”
Caleb pictured Anna, her turquoise dress ruined, her bold speech silenced. Why would anyone want to live in the public eye? And yet he couldn’t deny her obvious appeal, the way her vivacious speech had captivated the crowd. He couldn’t imagine a better figurehead for the cause.
“No, you’ve done well,” Caleb said. “Keeping her identity hidden is best.”
As he surveyed the scene, voices ebbed and flowed around him. All of these people had come to hear her speak. He fisted his hands. Not all of them. For all he knew, the man who’d pulled the trigger was here. Waiting. Watching.
Caleb searched the faces of the spectators milling around the lobby. There was no way of knowing, no way of telling who held violence in their heart.
He raked his hands through his hair. Until they discovered the shooter, the less said, the better. What did it matter how Anna was registered? No one would know but the
