Page 22 of At Love’s Command

Thankfully, Mr. Albertson arrived with an ingrown toenail that proved an adequate distraction. By the time she had his toe cleaned, treated, and bundled back up into a loosened shoe, the remaining two Horsemen had arrived with the wagon.

Demonstrating admirable military efficiency, the three healthy Horsemen had the horses retrieved from the livery, Mr. Wallace bundled into the back of the wagon, and all of that awful weaponry cleared out of her infirmary in mere minutes.

Having seen Mr. Albertson on his way, Josephine strolled down to the street and leaned over the edge of the wagon bed to bid her patient good-bye. “Don’t go undoing all my fine needlework on that arm of yours, Mr. Wallace. Wear the sling whenever you’re up and about and get plenty of rest.”

He gave her a two-fingered salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll follow your instructions to the letter.”

“See that you do.” She wagged a finger at him in mock sternness. “I’ll be out to check on you, so I’ll know if you misbehave.”

“That rogue always misbehaves,” Mr. Davenport said as he finished tying Wallace’s gray horse to the back of the wagon. He left Phineas tied to the hitching post, then moved past her to climb into the front of the wagon. “The captain will settle up our account, Doc,” he said with a tip of his hat.

She stepped back from the wagon, then lifted a hand to wave as Mr. Brooks set the team in motion. “Keep the pace slow,” she called as they pulled away.

“They will.” The captain’s voice rumbled close behind her.

She pivoted sharply and came face-to-back with the man she’d been trying so valiantly to eradicate from her mind. His gun belt had returned to his hips, and as she watched, he slid a rifle into the scabbard on his saddle. Apparently not all of the weaponry was in the wagon. A good deal of it was on the captain.

Josephine frowned. How had she forgotten the reality of who he was? He might be fiercely loyal to his men, patient and kind to young boys, and respectful to her, but he was still a man of war. Once again draped in the tools of his trade. Wasn’t that what he’d called them? These horrible contraptions of metal and gunpowder that were designed to maim and kill? Yes, they could also be used to defend the innocent and feed the hungry, as he’d claimed, but looking at them now, she couldn’t ignore the truth. He was a man of violence. A warrior who had undoubtedly taken lives on the battlefield. Perhaps he fought now to protect the weak and preserve justice, but the fact was, he still chose a path of violence, not one of peace. The very opposite of the oath she’d taken to first do no harm.

Maybe it was a good thing he was leaving.

“This should be enough to cover your fee,” Captain Hanger said as he slowly turned to face her, a couple folded banknotes in his hand.

“Thank you.” She slipped the money into the pocket of her apron without looking at it. Without really looking at him either.

He stood there for a moment, and she thought he might say something. But he didn’t. He just turned back to Phineas, swung up into the saddle, then tipped his hat to her.

“See ya around, Doc.”

“Good-bye, Captain.”

Then, without a backward glance, Matthew Hanger rode out of her town and out of her life.

“It’s for the best,” she mumbled as she watched him ride away. He belonged with his men. Just as she belonged in her clinic. Where things would finally revert back to normal now that Captain Hanger, with his intense hazel eyes, fierce loyalty, and impressive musculature, had removed himself.

A week later, she was still waiting for the reversion to occur. Stubborn reminders lingered, like campfire smoke infused into clothing. It was as if someone had taken her perfectly ordinary rooms and nailed brass nameplates above each doorway to assign them new identities.

The Parlor of the Carried Tea Tray. The Hall of Awkward Apologies. The Infirmary of Dedicated Vigils. The Examination Room of Averted Crisis. She even had a Kitchen of the Drying Vest, since she’d discovered his damp cavalry vest hanging on the back of one of her chairs the morning after he’d slept in her infirmary. Or not slept, if the cleanliness of her kitchen and his clothing was any indication.

It had been eight days since the Horsemen left. Eight days. And still her gaze darted to the chair in question when she crossed the kitchen to fetch the kettle for some late-morning refreshment, hoping to see a familiar flash of blue.

For pity’s sake. She couldn’t even fix herself a cup of tea without Matthew Hanger intruding. Josephine abandoned the kettle and marched out of the kitchen. Forget the tea, she needed some fresh air.

Josephine left the clinic and strode down the street. In the opposite direction from the one the Horsemen had driven when returning to Dalton’s ranch. The sun shone in the sky. A gentle breeze cooled her nape. There were probably even wildflowers blooming down along the creek. Perfect conditions for a country stroll. And the perfect prescription for an ailing mind: Take in a healthy dose of God’s creation. Allow his spirit to soothe hers. Let go of what-if and focus on what was.

“Josephine! Wait!” Lizzie bolted out of the post office, waving a piece of mail above her head. “There’s a letter for you.”

Biting back a sigh, Josephine turned and pasted a grateful smile on her face. Hopefully the grin hid her irritation. After all, it wasn’t Lizzie’s fault that she suffered from a frustrating case of man-brain. The infection would clear eventually. In the meantime, she’d just have to think sterile thoughts when her friend brought up the Horsemen. Because she would. Lizzie had spoken of little else over the past week. Recounting their heroics in taking down the rustlers. Going on about how much her father respected them not only as hired guns, but as men. She even felt it necessary to relate the various singing styles of the four men, since they’d joined her father on the Dalton family pew in church on Sunday. Apparently Mr. Wallace sang a lilting tenor that had actually caused Mabel Yarbrough to swoon. Mr. Brooks rumbled a low bass almost too quiet to hear. Preach Davenport couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. And the captain? Well, his voice was as no-nonsense as the rest of him. He hit the notes he aimed for and left it at that.

“You didn’t have to chase me down,” Josephine teased as she retraced her steps to meet her friend. “You could have just brought it when you delivered supper, like you usually do.”

Lizzie, slightly out of breath, held an ivory envelope out to her. “I thought it might be important. It’s from Gringolet.”

Her father?

Josephine took the envelope. The penmanship didn’t match the slashing, powerful strokes she’d expected to see. The address had been scribed in a softer, more feminine hand. Darla? Why would Father’s housekeeper write to her? Josephine’s heart flip-flopped. Had something happened to him?

Josephine tore open the letter and consumed the words as fast as her eyes would allow. Father was in good health, thank the Lord, but Charlie . . .