what he’d said. “You know, that’s actually a good idea,” she murmured after a moment. She could use this to teach her son about being a Christian, and give him a reason to behave, all in one. “Very well, Mr. Thorn...you may stay—for now.”
“Much obliged, ma’am. I won’t give you cause to regret it.”
But could he really promise that? Even if she believed him, that he was riding with the outlaws for an honorable reason, he was still technically on the run from the law. If her neighbors found out she was harboring a fugitive, she’d never survive the scandal...
She asked another question to distract herself from that worry. “Umm, you didn’t say, exactly—is Thorn your first or your last name?”
“First name,” he said, and his face twisted as if the name caused him to feel bitter. “Last name is Dawson.”
He must have seen the skeptical look on her face. “I’m telling you the truth, Mrs. Henderson.”
“All right then,” she said. “You can stay here until you’re well enough to ride off, Mr. Dawson. But I can’t have you dying on me. Having a dead outlaw’s body in my barn would be a little hard to explain. Simpson Creek has a very good doctor, and I insist on having him see you. I have no nursing experience, so I need his guidance on how to treat you, if you’re to recover. You can tell him the same thing you told me,” she added quickly, guessing he was about to protest. And that made her irritable. She was trying to help him, and he wanted to question that?
“And you needn’t look so doubtful,” she snapped. “Dr. Walker isn’t your usual small-town quacksalver. He knows all the latest things in medicine, and I’ve seen him save folks who were at death’s door. He doesn’t use all those snake oil remedies like calomel, either.”
“All right, all right,” the wounded man said, waving a hand in surrender. “Have him come—if he’s not needed treating the others in town.”
She saw him wince and guessed that the movement sent fresh, stabbing waves of pain lancing through his wounded shoulder. Either that, or he felt guilty at the thought of the bank president and teller who had been shot.
“I’ll send Billy Joe for him,” she said. “And don’t worry, I’ll tell him to go straight to the doctor’s house, and not to breathe a word of your presence here to any of his no-account friends.” She could easily picture Billy Joe, flushed with triumph at having a “real gen-u-ine outlaw” in his barn, bragging to all his pals. As Daisy turned to leave the stall, she said a little prayer that her son would be obedient enough to follow her command. She still didn’t know whether or not to believe the man who lay in the stall when he said he wasn’t an outlaw, but just this once, she’d take on faith something she’d been told. She just hoped she wouldn’t come to regret trusting him in her and Billy Joe’s lives.
And if he wasn’t an outlaw, what was he doing riding with them?
Daisy sighed as Billy Joe took off down the street at a run toward Dr. Walker’s house at the other end of Simpson Creek, leaving the kitchen door gaping open behind him, as usual. Out of habit, she went and shut it, but her mind wasn’t on the flies she was trying to keep out, or her son’s surprisingly quick agreement to her conditions for letting the wounded man stay. It was fixed on Thorn himself.
Thorn—odd first name; short for something else, like Thornton?—Dawson was a puzzle to her. She’d told him so much about herself, but had learned so little about him in return. All she really knew was that he was hurt—and that she’d promised to help.
And that meant she shouldn’t be just sitting here, gazing out the window at the barn and wondering about the man lying in one of the stalls. She should be getting bandaging materials ready—or would Doc Walker bring them? At the very least, she could put a pot of water on to boil in case the doctor needed it.
By the time she’d gathered an old sheet and set some water to boil on the stove, though, Billy Joe still hadn’t returned with the doctor. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it was getting late and she still hadn’t done anything about supper. She was sorely tempted to go out to the barn to gather the eggs that her son hadn’t collected, but to do so would mean being alone with the stranger out there. Yes, they were alone in the barn before, when she’d sent Billy Joe away, but in that moment protecting her son had been her top—her only—priority. But Billy Joe was fine now, and there was no reason for her to pass any more time than necessary with a strange man. She’d have to face him again at some point, of course, since he’d be staying with them for who knew how long, but it wasn’t something she was ready to do again just yet.
Minutes later, Daisy nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the shadow of a man’s figure ripple into the yard between the house and the barn. There hadn’t been many full-grown men on her property since her husband had been taken away to jail—and she still felt the familiar sense of dread at the sight of a man’s shadow. But it was the doctor, finally, carrying his big black leather bag. Billy Joe ran before him, looking back over his shoulder with an obvious impatience for the physician to reach the wounded man. She’d better go out and see what assistance Dr. Walker might require from her. Would he think she was a foolish woman for calling the doctor first before the sheriff, under the circumstances?
By the time she got out to the barn, Dr. Walker had already hung his frock coat over the half door of the stall and rolled up his sleeves, and was peering at Dawson’s shoulder wound. The doctor had already pulled away what remained of the bloody shirt off the outlaw’s shoulder.
“Thanks for coming, Dr. Walker,” Daisy murmured, feeling her stomach roil as she flinched away from the sight of the dried streaks of blood, as well as the man’s bare, well-muscled shoulder. She never dealt well with the sight of blood—not since she was a girl, and Peter...but no, she wouldn’t think of her brother now. That was a memory best left buried.
“Mmm. I’d have been here sooner, but I was a mite busy with Mr. Amos and his bank teller. I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that they’ll live, by all indications,” he muttered.
“I’m real glad to hear it,” Thorn said, and he sounded like he meant it. “It was a lowdown, cowardly thing, what Zeke did, firing like that when there was no cause for it at all. If I’d noticed him aiming just a minute sooner, maybe I could’ve...” He shook his head. “Makes no difference what I would or could’ve done—I know that. There’s no changing what happened. But I sure am mighty glad to hear that both of those men will be all right.”
Dr. Walker gave him a nod of acknowledgment. “You’ll recover, too, once I get the bullet out of your shoulder. But you must know, you’ve lost a lot of blood...”
She was aware that her son was staring at the shoulder wound with a fascinated horror. “Billy Joe, go inside the house.”
“But I’m gonna help the doctor!” Billy Joe protested. “He said he’d need someone to hold the lantern so he could see to clean and dress the wounds.”
She was sure a clear view of Thorn’s injuries was not a sight that a young boy should be seeing. “I’ll do that,” she said in a tone that brooked no disobedience. She would simply have to push past her distaste for the sight of bloody injuries. Perhaps she’d be able to keep her focus on the lantern and not look at the wound at all. “Billy Joe,” she continued, “you gather those eggs like I told you to, then head inside.”
“Are you
