Page 64 of At Love’s Command

He shook his head slightly, unable to accept her praise. “My character’s as poor as my eyesight. It’s just . . . well, ya remind me of someone.” He turned his back on her and busied himself with repacking his supplies.

“Who?” Josephine prodded as she reached for a canister of salt.

He stilled, a bag of beans cradled in his arms. “Agatha,” he murmured. “My wife.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “She’d be plumb ashamed of me, degenerate beggar that I am.” He lifted his chin. “I used to run an inn. Had four rooms. Provided simple, hearty fare. Agatha kept the rooms tidy. I saw to the vittles. We weren’t rich, but we got by well enough. Until she got sick.” His chin dropped, and he kicked at the nearby wagon wheel. “Consumption. Took a year to kill her. Nearly killed me too, watching her waste away. Maybe it did. Killed the good parts, at least. I was nothin’ but a hollowed-out wreck after she died. Turned to drinkin’. Gamblin’. Anything to dull the pain. Only the pain got worse. Lost the inn. Lost my friends. My faith. Ran up such a big debt that when Taggart offered to buy me out in exchange for cookin’ for his men, I didn’t even blink. Figured if I died while running with the gang, the pain would be done.”

He finally met her gaze. “When you thanked me fer the meal last night, it brought it all back. My inn. Fillin’ the bellies of decent folks. Bein’ the man I used to be. I never thought I’d feel that way again. Like I mattered.

“I ain’t no hero, ma’am, but if Agatha had been the one to live instead of me, and she found herself a prisoner among these hooligans, I’d have wanted someone to watch out fer her.”

Josephine blinked away the sheen of moisture that had gathered behind her eyelids, then touched the cook’s arm. “When this is all over, come to Gringolet Farms near San Antonio. Ask for me. There’ll be a job waiting for you there.”

He shook his head and turned back to his supplies, muttering under his breath about softhearted fillies being too kind for their own good. He sidestepped the displaced chuck box, grabbed the large coffeepot, and headed to the water barrel attached to the opposite side of the wagon.

Perhaps he would change his mind. She prayed he would.

“You ready for that walk?” Charlie brushed her shoulder with his hand.

Josephine nodded. Privacy for a woman in an outlaw camp was a precious commodity. She’d never been one to appreciate sleeping outdoors, anyway. Riding, yes. Sleeping? Give her a roof and four solid walls, please. Not to mention wooden floors and sealed windows to keep out the creepy-crawly visitors that roamed free in the wild.

Nevertheless, the collection of bushes southeast of the house had become her sanctuary over the last fifteen hours. She didn’t get to visit often, but the moment she slipped behind the thick juniper, it was as if she stepped into a secret passageway in an old castle, where a hinged bookcase closed behind her and shielded her from the oppressive weight of a dozen outlaws’ eyes.

She could breathe for those precious minutes. Think of something besides wicked men and what they might be plotting. Tend to ordinary needs and rest her mind. Even medical school hadn’t taxed her mental stamina as much as constantly being on guard against Carver, Taggart, and the rest of the drunken horde.

“Here, I filled this with fresh water while you were talking with Cookie.” Charlie extracted a silver flask from a pocket inside his coat and handed it to her. Then he dug in his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. “It’s mostly clean.” There was the charmer’s grin she remembered.

Josephine accepted his offerings and the thoughtfulness behind them. “Thank you.” She touched his shoulder. He met her gaze, his eyes steeled with a determination that promised to atone for past mistakes. After a charged moment, she nodded, then dropped her hand from his shoulder and headed for the bushes.

As she strolled away from the heart of the camp, Josephine circled her neck and shoulders to work out the soreness accumulated from her cramped sleeping space. A touch of pink lingered in the sky, bringing a smile to her face. Didn’t the Bible promise that God’s mercies were new every morning? She prayed his mercies would prove bountiful today. Mercies that allowed Matthew to be alive and not irreparably injured. Mercies that would bring swift justice upon their enemies. Mercies that would protect her and Charlie from those who wished them harm.

The juniper bushes might have been only a couple dozen yards away from the cookfire, but the moment those bushes separated her from the rest of the camp, a weight slid off her back—the weight of protecting Charlie, of protecting herself. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled in a long, slow release. Her eyes slid closed, and she concentrated on letting go of the tension in her neck, her arms, back, and legs.

She counted to ten, then opened her eyes and drank in the last bit of pink as it faded from the early morning sky. An unformed plea flew heavenward with her gaze before she turned her attention to more mundane matters.

After taking care of her most urgent need, she unbuttoned the top few buttons of her shirtwaist, dampened Charlie’s handkerchief, and set to work refreshing her face and neck. Closing her eyes again, she imagined her bathing tub at home filled with warm water. A bar of rose-scented soap nearby. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for her toothbrush. She lifted the flask to her lips and swished a mouthful of water. Not that it made a significant dent in the state of her overall oral cleanliness, but it helped.

Bending her neck forward, she ran the damp cloth over her nape. Maybe they’d let her have her bag today. Let her brush out her hair. How glorious that would feel—

“Where is she?”

The sharp demand brought Josephine’s head up with a start. Carver! Her eyes flew open, and her hands automatically clutched at the buttons of her open bodice.

“She’s tending to personal matt—oof!”

The thud of what had to be a fist on flesh cut off Charlie’s words.

“No one recalls seeing her last night. Not in the barn.”

A grunt interrupted the speech.

“Not in the yard.”

Another grunt.

Josephine fumbled with her buttons, her trembling fingers refusing to cooperate.

“If you helped her escape, I’ll kill you.”

Abandoning the buttons, Josephine rounded the bushes and sprinted back to the chuck wagon, where Carver held Charlie by his shirtfront. Charlie’s lip was bleeding, and Carver’s fist was raised for another strike.